


Another Song

by isisUnbound



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bastard Sansa, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Catelyn born a Stark, F/M, Female Edmure, Female Tywin, Fix-It, Gen, Greyjoy Sansa, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Martell Ned, R plus L equals J, Roleswap, Stark Doran, Trueborn Jon, Tully Ned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isisUnbound/pseuds/isisUnbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serie of drabbles, each one presenting an idea for an Alternate Universe fic.</p><p>This is inspired by  "Winter Is Coming Along With Ideas", by Elizabeth_Blossom (it's exactly the same concept).</p><p>Tenth chapter: Ned is the Prince of Dorne, Doran is the Lord of Winterfell. (entire Stark/Martell House-swap)<br/>Eleventh chapter: Tywin Lannister is born a girl. (female Tywin/Aerys)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hoster Tully has no son, only three daughters (fem!Edmure)

**Author's Note:**

> You're welcome to tell me which AU ideas you like best and to suggest some that could tickle my fancy!
> 
> Thanks to Elizabeth_Blossom, L_Cloudy and all the wonderful authors that write ASOIAF Alternate Universe fics. This is my favorite kind of fanfiction and ASOIAF is an AU goldmine. So many wonderful possibilities...

“They sure are a sight for sore eyes,” Brandon whispered to his brother as they entered the Great Hall of Riverrun.

Ned glanced at his brother’s impish smile and sighed. Brandon’s attitude towards women could be frustrating sometimes but Ned had to admit he had a point. The Tully sisters standing next to each other did paint quite a lovely picture.

Lord Hoster Tully introduced each of his daughters to the Stark brothers. Lady Catelyn, the eldest in both birth and beauty, had been groomed as the future Lady of Riverrun ever since her mother’s passing. Then came Lady Lysa, a shy, pretty maid of fourteen. The youngest girl, little Lady Edma, visibly had trouble not to fidget before her father’s guests. She was but seven years old but you could already see she would grow up to be as lovely as her sisters.

People whispered than the gods had not been kind to Hoster Tully when they saw fit to bury his three sons into the ground and give him three daughters. Yet, Ned did not see how any man could consider Lord Tully cursed for fathering these three beauties.

At the welcoming feast, Ned was seated next to Catelyn, of course. He was a little bit intimidated at first. What did Hoster Tully’s fair heiress think of marrying a plain-faced, second son? If Catelyn Tully was disappointed by what she saw, she hid it well and was courteous and kind. They managed to have a somewhat impersonal but pleasant conversation as Brandon flirted with Lysa Tully and made her blush as red as her hair.

As they were escorted to their chambers after the end of the feast, Brandon slipped to his brother:

“This is a very good match, brother. You get both the Riverlands and the prize of House Tully. I am quite jealous.”

When Lord Rickard Stark had written to Riverrun about a marriage alliance, he had asked for Catelyn’s hand on _Brandon_ ’s behalf. It was Lord Hoster that had asked for Ned instead. _“Your eldest stands to inherit Winterfell. Catelyn can neither rule the Riverlands from the North, nor live separated from her own husband. However, your second son Lord Eddard is also quite close to Catelyn’s age and could eventually settle with her in Riverrun.”_ Lord Rickard had promptly accepted and secured his son a glowing future as _de facto_ Lord of the Riverlands.

Paradoxically, the Lord of Winterfell had a lot more trouble finding a suitable wife for his heir than for his spare. Brandon had almost been betrothed to Elia Martell. The Princess of Dorne had visited Winterfell and had liked both his brother and the North. However, her fragile health was worsened by the cold climate and the Maester said that living in the North would endanger her life. She regretfully had to leave.

Ned had been sad to see her go. The Princess of Dorne had a kind heart and a sweet wit and Ned would have liked to have her as a goodsister. When he had learned that the King had refused Lady Cersei Lannister as a bride for Prince Rhaegar and instead chosen Princess Elia, Ned had been unable to suppress a smile. When Rickard Stark had written to Casterly Rock to inquire about Lady Cersei’s hand, he had received nothing but a cold, haughty rebuttal.

However, it seemed the Lord of Winterfell had finally found a bride for Brandon. Lord Mace Tyrell had a maiden sister only a few years older than Brandon, Janna. Ned would stay in Riverrun for a while to get to know his betrothed as Brandon would ride to the Reach and hopefully meet his own.

“I am sure Lady Janna will be as lovely as Lady Catelyn.”

“She better be”, quipped Brandon. “Goodnight, Ned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Lady Edma Tully would grow up to be buxom, boisterous and a big flirt. I would probably make her end up with Jaime because I love crack pairings.


	2. Joanna speaks to Tywin about their children's unnatural relationship

“I moved Jaime’s room at the opposite of the keep and placed a guard outside of Cersei’s chamber. Yet, they did it again. It’s not merely child play, Tywin.”

“Incest is reviled in the sight of gods and men. If anyone were to learn about this, House Lannister would have to face far worse than the scorn we had to endure under my father.”

Tywin’s face had grown pale and his lips were pinched, like each time he worried about the honor of their House. Joanna laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and smiled as she felt some of the tension leave him.

“We can still fix this, Ty. The twins are only eight. They can easily forget about all of this, if we make them.”

“They have to be separated.”

Joanna nodded.

“I would keep Cersei with me. She’s too young to go to court with you yet and I still have many things to teach her about being a Lady of House Lannister.”

“I was thinking about sending Jaime to squire for Crakehall in a few years but I suppose I could send him a little early.”

“It does no good sending Jaime away if he still obsesses over Cersei. What he needs is to spend time with another girl. If they are well-suited to each other, his affection for Cersei will pass to her.”

“She would have to be his betrothed. I’m not having another Lannister ridicule himself with a commonborn whore.”

“Then, let’s find a maid worthy of the heir to Casterly Rock”, smiled Joanna. “She has to be as old as Jaime, one or two years older at most, so they may grow up together. Highborn, of course; a daughter of a Great House would be best. A fair face would also suit us better.”

Tywin Lannister answered his wife’s smile with a small one of his own.

“There is only one maid that fit your description, Joanna. You might as well say her name.”

“Catelyn Tully. You know it would be a good match.”

“I have no objection towards the girl herself. However, I don’t like the idea of Jaime being raised outside the Westerlands. If Jaime is fostered in Riverrun, Hoster Tully will become like a second father to him. Our son is a lion, not a trout, and I don’t want him to become too much _Tully_.”

“Jaime will always be a lion, no matter who raises him. Think about the advantages for our House, Ty. Edmure Tully would grow up looking up to Jaime as an older brother. This bond of friendship would be strengthened by Catelyn and Jaime’s marriage. Send our son to Riverrun, and the Tully are ours.”

Tywin had learnt from a very young age how to make people respect him but he often forgot that loyalty could be bought with other things than fear. It was part of Joanna’s duty to remind her husband of that.

“I will write the letter,” said Tywin. He knew she was right but Joanna could see he was still displeased.

“I will be loath to part with Jaime too,” she said gently. “But soon we will have another son or daughter to dote upon,” Joanna added, laying a hand on her heavily pregnant belly.

People would not call Tywin Lannister cold and ruthless if they could see the tender look on his face as he gazed upon his wife. But Tywin’s softer side belonged to her and her alone. Joanna _liked_ it that way: she was a lion, and lions did not share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to set up an universe for Jaime/Cat but I ended writing Tywin/Joanna fluff instead.... It made me wish Joanna had lived and kept Tywin from becoming his child-murdering abusive bastard canonic self. Perhaps I'll write another "Joanna lives!" AU.
> 
> Tywin and Joanna aside, this AU has pretty interesting possibilities : Jaime becoming BFFs with the Tullys and squiring with the Blackfish, a strong alliance between Tully and Lannister during Robert's Rebellion etc.


	3. The Andals practice female-preference primogeniture (Ned/Lysa, Stannis/Catelyn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, female-preference primogeniture is a purely Andal custom. So : 
> 
> The Iron Islands, the North and the Targaryens: male-preference primogeniture.  
> The South minus Dorne : female-preference primogeniture.  
> Dorne : equal primogeniture.
> 
> I hesitated a lot about the Targaryens. In the Valyrian freehold, both men and women could rule. However, if you look at Volantis, it seems women in power are a lot rarer than men. Furthermore, when the Targaryens fled to Dragonstone before the Doom, the title of Lord of Dragonstone went from father to son. Therefore, I decided that the Targaryens would keep their own custom of male-preference primogeniture.

Robb was dead. He had been born so perfect, with a shock of Tully red hair and a handsome little Tully face, yet he had never drawn breath.

The maester had told Lysa that her sweet son had been dead in her womb. She could almost feel the bitter taste of tansy in her mouth. _Will I ever be able to hold a living child of mine in my arms? Has my father robbed me of that too?_

Her husband had just come back to Winterfell. Lysa knew she should have dressed and welcomed him in the yard but she had not the strength. She hadn’t left her bed since her own arrival and her husband’s people probably despised her. They would have loved Cat. She was the strong one, the heiress to Riverrun, and wed to the King’s own brother. Lysa was the soiled woman that Eddard Stark had married for her father’s swords.

_I never wanted him. I didn’t want Brandon either, no matter how charming his smiles. All I wanted was Petyr but he only ever loved Cat. She enticed him away from me, with her smiles and dances, but she never loved him back. Not like I loved him. I comforted him when he was drunk and heartbroken over her. I gave him my maiden’s gift... and he whispered “Cat” in my hair as he took it._

_I hate him. I hate them all. Petyr, Father, Cat, Eddard Stark. May they all burn in the Seven Hells._

Yet, when Eddard Stark had wed her in Riverrun, Lysa had been hopeful still. Her husband looked stern but his words and touch was gentle. He did not look at her with contempt for not being a maid. _I will give him a son and he will love me for sure_ , Lysa had thought _._ She still believed her father’s promises then, in spite of the tea. _Sweet sons and trueborn_ , he had said. _Sweet sons and trueborn_ , she thought bitterly, _when my Robb lies in his grave._ How could her husband ever love her now?

Her maid entered and told her that her husband wanted to see her. With a lazy wave of her hand, Lysa signalled the servant to let him through.

 _They must have told him already._ Grief was plain on her husband’s face and his dark grey eyes were a storm of pain. He sat on Lysa’s bed and embraced her spontaneously.

“I am so sorry, my lady. I should have been there, I should have been with you.”

In her husband’s arms, Lysa felt a dam inside her breaking. Tears came unbidden to her eyes when she thought she no longer had tears to cry.

“I... I have failed you. I’m sorry.”

Eddard looked at her in the eyes, as solemn as ever.

“Please do not think that, my lady. The... the gods are cruel sometimes. It’s no one’s fault.”

He kissed her brow so gently that words she never thought she would say came tumbling out of Lysa’s mouth.

“But it _is_ my fault. My womb is ruined because of that tea. I swear, I didn’t know what it was. I only drank what Father gave me.”

Eddard Stark’s brows furrowed.

“Did your father force you to drink moon tea?”

“Of course he did. Would you have wed me with a bastard in my belly?” replied Lysa bitterly.

Her husband’s face flushed. Suddenly, he seemed to choke on his words:

“I have... erred too, my lady. I have... I have a bastard son. Conceived during the war. I... brought him here. Jon, his name is.”

Lysa felt a fresh stab of pain in her heart. _Of course, he wasn’t faithful to me._

“Bring him to me.”

“My lady...”

“Show him to me,” she said imperiously, her voice shrill.

Her husband sighed and came back with the boy. Lysa held her arms out and he gave him to her.

Jon Snow was a healthy boy, black of hair, with a solemn little Stark face. Whoever his mother was, he looked nothing like her. _He could have been mine, ours._

Jon opened his Stark grey eyes and peered at Lysa. He burrowed into her chest, looking for a teat. Lysa’s breasts were full of useless milk so she freed one from her shift and gave it to Jon. He started sucking hungrily. It felt so right that all her anger fizzled out of her, replaced by crushing sadness. _He_ should _have been mine. Robb’s dark-haired, stronger twin. Why isn’t he mine?_

Tears started dripping slowly from Lysa’s eyes, falling onto the babe in his arms.

Eddard Stark looked at her with tremendous pain in his eyes and blurted out:

“He is not mine. I cannot lie to you, not like this. Jon is Lyanna’s son.”

Lysa could only listen in astonishment as her husband told her of what he had found in the Tower of Joy.

“For his protection, the world must believe that Jon is my bastard. I am sorry for the shame this lie will brought you, my lady. But, if you could find it in your heart to love Jon...”

Lysa looked down at the boy in her arms. He looked nothing like Robb, but it was fine. Jon couldn’t replace Robb, as Robb couldn’t replace the first child he had lost.

“I don’t know if I will ever be able to birth a living child,” she said, and her voice sounded incredibly calm to her ears. “Your sister’s son is perhaps the only heir you will ever have... and the only living child that I will ever held in my arms. Please, let me raise Jon as my own. The world will name him Snow but he will be our sweet son.”

Her husband took them in his arms, her and their son both. He kissed her hair, her eyelids, her mouth and called her strong and kind. Called her Lysa, and not _my lady_. No matter how solemn his face was, Eddard Stark was a warm, loving man and he had given her hope again.

* * *

 

In the end, he had figured it out because of his children.

All of them had at least a little something that marked then as true Baratheons. Sansa looked wholly Tully from a distance but her eyes were dark blue, freckled with grey. Storm eyes, Catelyn called them. Shireen had her mother’s delicate cheekbones and big Tully blue eyes but her father’s strong jaw and black hair. As for Steffon... Steffon looked exactly like a younger Robert or Renly. Sometimes, it was hard to look at his son and feel something else besides bitterness.

 _Storm’s End should have been mine. I am Robert’s oldest brother._ Yet, barely two days after his coronation, Robert had packed him up and sent him to the Riverlands to marry Hoster Tully’s daughter.

Here, Robert had not cheated him at least. Catelyn was the eldest and fairest of the Tully daughters. Since the first day of their marriage, she had treated him with warmth and respect. The respect, Stannis was used to – he had proved his worth by holding Storm End’s for Robert against all odds – but the affection had surprised him. It had brought back dim memories of his parents before the sea had claimed them.

Catelyn was good Lady and a good wife. She was sensible, dutiful and, most of all, true. His own brothers loved him little but Catelyn was different. He could no more doubt her feelings for him than he could doubt his own.

He had he not gone far beyond what duty required of him? He had given Catelyn not just Sansa but Shireen and Steffon too. _And I will give her another child._ He knew Catelyn wanted one. Another daughter or perhaps a little boy to play with Steffon.

In sharp contrast with his marriage to Catelyn, Robert and Cersei Lannister’s union had proven to be completely devoid of affection. And also devoid of any trueborn children, if his suspicions were true.

He had voiced them to Catelyn and she had urged him to be cautious.

“The Lannisters have far too much power at court. You mustn’t go to the King’s with anything less than absolute proof of the Queen’s adultery.”

“It must come from Jon Arryn. Robert wouldn’t believe it from me.”

His wife had sighed.

“Your brother does not doubt your loyalty, Stannis. Still, it’s better if it comes from Jon Arryn. Even if the King knows that you aren’t after his throne, the Lannisters will still call you a liar and a usurper.”

So Jon Arryn and he had started to carefully collect evidence. However, before any of it could be presented to the King, Arryn had died of a bad belly. The old man had been strong and healthy before his unexpected death so he had probably been silenced by the Lannisters.

And now Robert was going North, not to offer him the Handship but to give it to Ned Stark.

“The Lannisters were bold enough to murder Jon Arryn. The time for caution has passed. You must tell your brother everything now.”

“Why should I? Robert will have the help of his _truest_ brother.”

“Ned Stark isn’t Robert’s brother. He is yours, by the bonds of marriage,” said Catelyn sternly. “You know he has never played the game of thrones. The Lannisters will eat him alive.”

“Better him that us.”

“We can join the King’s party on the kingsroad. I often go to Winterfell to visit Lysa and it’s been sometimes since I had the pleasure of seeing my goodbrother the King,” said Catelyn with a wry smile. “Once we’re in Winterfell, you can tell the King and Ned Stark the truth. The Queen will be far from her power base and surrounded by loyal Northmen. It’ll be our best bet.”

“I still have no proof to give to Robert. He’ll laugh in my face.”

“He won’t”, said his wife sadly. “Your brother doesn’t like you – you are too different for that – but he does love you.”

“Really? You would never guess by the way he treats me.”

Catelyn laid her hands on his shoulders and Stannis felt some tension leeching out of him.

“Your brother is a fat fool,” said Catelyn who always spoke to her husband as bluntly as he spoke to her. “But his feelings for you matters little in this affair. What is truly important is his hatred towards his Queen. He won’t have any trouble believing she betrayed him. Then, _he_ will gather the evidence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Realm in this verse:  
> Ned Stark is the Lord of Winterfell. His heir is his legitimized bastard, Jon Stark. Since Lysa raised the boy as her own, it's easy to forget Jon was ever a bastard.  
> After a lot of stillbirths and miscarriages, Lysa gave birth to Arya and Bran. Arya is her canon self, except Lysa indulges her a lot more than Cat. Bran has his canon personnality but a very frail health.
> 
> Harrold Arryn is the Lord of the Eyrie, as the sole surviving grandchild of Lady Alys Arryn.
> 
> Genna Lannister is the Lady of Casterly Rock. Her father still made the mistake of marrying her to Emmon Frey. As he gave her four Frey sons, Genna adopted her bastard niece, Joy Hill, and raises her as her daughter and heiress. There has been bad blood between Lannister and Frey ever since.
> 
> Hoster Tully is the Lord of the Riverlands and Catelyn is his heiress. 
> 
> Janna Tyrell is the Lady of Highgarden. She's married to Baelor Hightower and they have four children: Willas, Garlan, Loras and Margaery. 
> 
> King Robert Baratheon sits the Iron Throne, with Princess Myrcella as his heiress. Dragonstone will go to Prince Joffrey when he comes of age.
> 
> For the Stormlands and Dorne, there is no change from canon.


	4. Edmure obeys his King and the Battle of the Fords doesn't happen (Red Wedding Fix-it)

It was a dismal escort that sent Lord Hoster Tully on his last voyage. Most of the Riverlords were off in the West, fighting with Robb.

Catelyn closed her eyes as she thought of her son. _He should have been there to see his grandfather off. Brynden too._

Edmure had not managed to set his father’s funeral boat afire. _Brynden would not have missed._ It was an uncharitable thought, born from her frustration towards her brother. Edmure told her little of the happenings outside the walls of Riverrun. _Robb took a small wound taking the Crag but he has fully healed and is leading his army again. Robb is crushing the Lannisters in the West._

Edmure was willing enough to talk to her about his King’s victories; yet, he stayed silent about the Freys’ departure from Riverrun. _Edmure hasn’t forgiven me from stealing Jaime Lannister from under his nose, from ridiculing him before his King. But Robb will. He must forgive me; Arya and Sansa are as much his blood as mine. He will free me from these rooms and then I will know what has happened._

The rivers were overflowing with rain when her son finally returned from the Westerlands. Catelyn expected to receive the King’s judgment in the Great Hall, before all the Lords of the North and the Riverlands. Instead, Robb summoned her to her father’s solar. _No, Edmure’s solar now._

The room was empty except for Robb, Edmure and the Blackfish. Her uncle embraced Catelyn first and she could not help smiling when she saw his craggy face. It felt strange, somehow. _I have been too long in grief and my face has lost the way of smiles._

“Mother.”

“Robb. I have prayed for your safe return. I have heard great tidings of your victories.”

“Our victories have been great indeed. The Lannisters have broken and I have taken Tywin Lannister captive.”

Her son looked the King now but there was still a hint of boyish enthusiasm in his eyes as he told her the news. _He has forgiven me, because we now have the father instead of the son. We hold the Lord of the Westerlands, Joffrey’s Hand of the King and our foes’ most dangerous battle commander captive._

“What do you plan to do with him?”

“I’ve already dealt with him. Lord Karstark beheaded him half a moon’s turn ago.”

Catelyn couldn’t retain a small cry of pain at the betrayal.

“What you’ve done means your sisters’ death!”

The Blackfish led her to a seat and told her gently:

“Sansa’s no longer in King’s Landing, Cat. They sent her to Highgarden to marry Mace Tyrell’s heir, Willas.”

Catelyn’s first thought was, _No, that cannot be, she’s only a child_. Sansa probably had her first flowering in King’s Landing. _And I missed it, as I will miss her wedding._

She racked her brain from information about Willas Tyrell. He was older than Sansa by ten years, and a cripple, but he was also said to be studious and kind. _If the gods are good, he will treat her gently. Perhaps she could even grow to be happy in her marriage, as I was with Ned._

She wet her lips and said carefully:

“What about Arya?”

Robb’s face fell.

“There is still no news of Arya. I doubt she’s in King’s Landing but, even if she was, the Tyrells wouldn’t kill her. Tywin Lannister is nothing to them. To Cersei Lannister and her mad son, yes, but their power is only nominal. King’s Landing has gone from a lion den to a rose bush. The Tyrells’ host hold the city. They have the smallfolk eating out of their hands. Joffrey is nothing more than a mummer’s king now.”

“The Lannisters still have power in the West and you have earned their bitter hatred by killing Tywin. There can no peace with them now.”

Robb’s eyes grew hard.

“Nor can there be peace. They _killed_ Father. When you freed the Kingslayer,” Catelyn took a deep breath. She knew the accusation was bound to come but that didn’t make it any less painful, “we almost lost the Karstarks. Lord Rickard was furious. He only stayed because I allowed him to enact his revenge on the Kingslayer’s father. And wasn’t that _just_? Rickard Karstark chose me for his King and fought for me loyally. His sons _died_ for me in the Whispering Wood. If I must earn the Lannister’s hatred for keeping the Karstark’s friendship, so be it. The way I see it, Tywin Lannister’s head can earn me more friends than enemies.”

“Doran Martell”, interjected the Blackfish. “Everyone knows that Tywin was behind the murders of Elia and her children. The Prince of Dorne will be pleased to receive his head.”

“Dorne lies further south and it is to the North you must look.”

Robb’s cheeks colored and, for a fleeting moment, Catelyn saw nothing but the small boy that had begged his mother’s forgiveness after doing some mischief. She listened attentively as he told her of his marriage with Jeyne Westerling. There was only one way to win the Freys back, and it was for Edmure to wed a Frey girl.

Edmure protested bitterly, of course. He had held Riverrun for his King, served him faithfully. How could he be forced to marry some girl who would probably be fat, weasely-looking or pox-faced? It took some sharp words from the Blackfish and a royal order from Robb to make him see reason.

After his brother finally gave his agreement to the match, Catelyn excused herself and went to meet her new daughter. Jeyne Westerling was a pretty girl, with chestnut curls and a shy smile. _And good childbearing hips, thanks the Seven._ She seemed dutiful and sweet but Catelyn hoped she was more than that. _She’s the Queen in the North and her husband’s most difficult battle lies ahead of him still. She must be strong as well as sweet._

As they sat sewing next to each other, Jeyne whispered to her:

“I haven’t told anyone except my mother, not even Robb, but... my moon blood is two weeks late.”

Catelyn looked up from her needle and threads.

“Are you usually late?”

“No more than a few days, my lady. Do you think I am with child?”

“You could be,” said Catelyn and these three little words seemed so momentous. _Bran and Rickon are gone and the girls are lost to me but perhaps I will soon hold Robb’s child in my arms._

“I pray every night to our Mother above for twin boys,” Jeyne chattered happily. “I would name them Eddard and Brandon. If it’s a girl, perhaps we could honor your family, my lady. Your mother was named Minisa, wasn’t she?”

Catelyn looked at her gooddaughter with a new fondness.

“She was, Your Grace. And you must call me Catelyn.”

“Only if you call me Jeyne,” replied the girl with a smile.

 _Minisa Stark. It is a good name. If Ned and I had had another girl, perhaps I would have named her Minisa._ Her husband’s death was still a bleeding wound in Catelyn’s heart, through the flow of blood had slowed down to a trickle.

Jeyne Westerling’s moon blood did not come and Walder Frey sent his son Perwyn to treat with Robb. Catelyn saw it as a good sign. Ser Perwyn was one of the most decent Freys and he had protected Robb during the Whispering Wood. _The old man is ready to make peace, though he will still require an abject apology from Robb._

Thus, Catelyn found herself at the Twins, enjoying Walder Frey’s dubious hospitality. The food and music were atrocious and Lord Frey seemed determined to slight Robb each time he opened his mouth. _The petty revenge of a petty man._

At least, everyone besides the Late Lord Frey seemed to be enjoying themselves. Freys and Northmen alike were dancing and playing drinking games. Robb asked Olyvar Frey to squire for him again and the boy accepted with a pleased smile and a barely-disguised look of hero-worship. As for her brother and his bride, they spent the entire feast exchanging shy smiles and bashful glances. _You would never guess Edmure complained of Roslin all the way from Riverrun to the Twins_. _I wish you well, brother_ , thought Catelyn with a small smile.

Soon, they were calling for the bedding and most guests left the Hall, following either man or maid and shouting bawdy cheers. Only Robb and his guards remained, with a few Freys that were too drunk to move and Lord Walder, of course.

The musicians started playing “The Rains of Castamere”. Catelyn’s heart jumped in her chest before she understood they played it to _honor_ Robb. _He killed Tywin Lannister._ _He brought down the mighty Lord that crushed the Reynes and Tarbecks._

She looked at the Lord of the Crossing’s wrinkled frace and saw hatred there, but also fear. _I was wrong, son, and you were right to kill Lord Tywin. If you hadn’t, we might have received a knife in the back instead of Lord Frey’s fealty._

There was a commotion at the door and Catelyn still feared some treachery. However, it was only a beleaguered guardsman in the grey and blue of House Frey.

“I beg your pardon, my lords, my ladies, but there is a man at the door who says he wants to ransom Arya Stark to her brother. We tried to arrest him but he is a fierce fighter. He almost cut one of our men to pieces.”

Now, Catelyn thought her heart had really stopped in her chest.

“Let him in,” said Robb before Walder Frey could place a word.

The man who brutally pushed the guard out his way and entered the Hall was Sandor Clegane. There was no mistaking that burnt face. The child who shadowed his steps was small and dirty. Her dark hair was short and spiked, as if they had been hastily cut with a blade. But Arya’s eyes – _Ned’s eyes –_ had not changed. They were still the same as when she had last seen her daughter, a lifetime ago in Winterfell.

“Mother,” Arya cried out before lauching herself into Catelyn’s arms. “Robb.”

There were tears on her dirt-stained face.

“Arya,” her son said, wonder and disbelief in his voice. “We thought you dead!”

“She is not, thanks to me,” said Sandor Clegane. “Now, you can give me a fat purse of gold for your little she-wolf.”

Robb looked him with disgust.

“I should have your head. But, since you gave Arya back to us, honor forbids me to take it. Instead, I think I will fit you for a new leash. I will make use of every man I have to retake the North.”

“Are we going home, mother?” asked Arya. Her voice was muffled as her face was still buried into the fabric of Catelyn’s dress.

 _We are going to Seagard. Your brother hasn’t taken our home back yet._ Yet, with the daughter whose death she had dreaded alive and well in her arms, it was easier to hope than before. So Catelyn smiled and said to her daughter:

“Soon, sweetling. Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Tywin was not delayed by the Battle of the Fords, took Robb's bait and was trapped in the Westerlands. After several off-screen battles, Robb managed to crush the Lannister host and capture Tywin. I hope you don't find that too unrealistic. But Robb was said to be brilliant in the field and he had Brynden Tully to help him.
> 
> When she saw Robb had defeated Tywin, Sybell Spycer promptly forgot "the arrangement" and gave her daughter a real fertility booster instead of a contraceptive. Walder Frey is as much cowardly as he is odious and he did not dare plan the Red Wedding without the support of Tywin and the Iron Throne. As for Roose Bolton, he is a prudent man who preys on weakness so he hasn't backstabbed Robb... though he may do so in the future.
> 
> Robb has survived his uncle's wedding but he's going to have his work cut out for him. There are Ironmen in the North, wildlings and White Walkers at the Wall and Ramsay Snow is still running around. He hasn't burnt Winterfell in this fic (because there was no secret Lannister/Frey/Bolton plot) but he is very much of a menace.
> 
> I kept the Battle of Blackwater as a defeat for Stannis. The Tyrells alone had a great host and many of Stannis' men died because of the wildfire. It was a narrow victory for the Tyrells but still a victory. More importantly, without Tywin and his men there, they are the sole power in King's Landing.
> 
> I know the pacing is just wrong and Arya and Sandor should have arrived way earlier but I did it for the symbolism. You may imagine Sandor and Arya having awesome off-screen adventures to explain their late arrival.


	5. Lysa has no stillbirths or miscarriages (Jon/Lysa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how monstruous she was at the end of her life, I always felt sorry for Lysa. So this is the AU where her marriage with Jon turned out happy...

Robb Stark and Minisa Arryn were born in Riverrun a few hours apart. They looked so much like each other, with their red hair and Tully features, that they could have been twins instead of cousins.

To have the two Tully sisters go into labour at the same time had been a nightmare both for the household of Riverrun and its Lord. The maester had to attend to both ladies at the same time. The memory of the girls’ mother, who died in the bed of blood after many stillbirths, made everyone fear the worst.

In such conditions, it seemed almost a miracle than the two mothers and their children were healthy. Lord Tully had congratulated his daughters and hugged them both. Lysa had been moved by the sight of her usually serious father misty-eyed and trembling. _He wants what best for me, he does. My husband may be old but I will be Lady of the Eyrie and Minisa won’t be a bastard._

Her father had smiled at the name then carefully said that perhaps she should have given the babe an Arryn name, to please her Lord husband. _Lord Arryn can have my sons but Minisa is mine and mine alone._

However, if Lysa had learnt anything, it was that certain things ought not to be said to her Lord father.

“Lord Arryn and I will have many other children,” she said instead. ‘I will give our firstborn son an Arryn name.”

“Of course, you will,” her father patted her head gently.

At least, he was not angry with her for not giving Lord Arryn an heir. He even seemed fonder of Minisa than he was of Robb. After all, Minisa did look at lot like her namesake and Lord Hoster Tully had loved his wife. Lysa suspected that one of the reasons he favored Cat was that she had their mother’s face.

 

§§§

 

Lysa arrived in King’s Landing dressed in sky-blue velvet and adorned in silver, every inch Lady Arryn, wife to the Hand of the King. Minisa was cooing softly in her arms. Her daughter had grown strong and chubby on the road.

Her husband went to meet them almost immediately. Lysa was struck by how old he was, with his white hair and saggy jowls. Her Septa said all men were beautiful. _Find his beauty. Try._ Her husband was still strong and healthy in spite of his age. And he had rather nice warm brown eyes. They were also Minisa’s eyes, which already endeared them to Lysa.

To Lord Arryn’s credit, he did welcome Lysa warmly, kissing her on the cheek and inquiring about her journey. He also asked to hold Minisa. Lysa was surprised at the look of wonder on his face as he watched his daughter sleep.

“Are you not disappointed it’s a girl, my Lord?”

“I never had the chance to be a father before. Any child is a blessing. Thank you, my Lady.”

He bowed his head to her deeply and Lysa blushed.

 

§§§

 

Years passed and more children came. First, a boy, two years after Minisa. They named him Elbert, after the nephew Jon had loved and lost to the Mad King’s folly.

Elbert was dark-haired, with his father’s face and his mother’s sky-blue eyes. If Jon had looked at his daughter in wonder, his expression when he had first beholden his son was deep pride. The future of House Arryn of the Eyrie was now secure.

Lysa looked at her son’s future and saw her husband’s past. Jon Arryn had once been a young and handsome knight. _If only he had been thirty years younger when we wed, I could have made him love me._ A younger man would have forgotten Lysa’s fault when a proud, elderly man could not.

Oh, Jon was never unkind to her. He always made sure she was as comfortable and happy as possible. He even asked for her counsel and listened to her opinions. But he was never truly tender. _He cannot love a soiled woman. At least, he doesn’t despise the children._ Jon was a wonderful father. The duties of the Hand of the King were staggering but he still took pains to spend time with Minisa and Elbert and clearly doted on them both.

Three years after Elbert, they had another girl, another dark-haired Arryn. She had very pretty forest-green eyes that intrigued Lysa and made Jon smile sadly. “My mother had the same eyes. Her name was Lessa and she was born a Lynderly of Snakewood.” Lysa suggested they named the baby after her and Jon had watched with true gratefulness in his eyes. Her husband was always so very grateful. _He married me for my fertile womb and I have not failed to deliver._

Such thoughts were a little unfair, perhaps. Jon was fond of her, as she was of him. They had grown comfortable with each other during these five years. They had the children, who they both loved immensely. It was not the best of marriages but it was far from the worst.

 

§§§

 

When she gave birth for the fourth time, Lysa thought she would die. The labor was longer and more painful and she lost a lot of blood. When they finally put her son in her arms, Lysa immediately knew something was wrong. The babe’s arms and legs were spindly and his crying was no louder than the mewling of a kitten.

Soon, every servant in the Tower of the Hand was whispering than Lord Arryn’s younger son was born weak and sickly. No one thought he would survive for long.

Lysa refused to give up. She was so afraid that her son would die in his sleep that she made him sleep in her bed and awoke at his slightest whimper. She tried to feed him as much as she could so he could grow stronger.

At first, Lysa had been confined to her bed to recover then she refused to leave it until her boy was better. The children wanted to see her and their new sibling but she kept them out. Minisa would jump on the bed and Elbert would want to hold his brother. The babe was too fragile to allow them in yet.

Jon came and pleaded with her to leave their son with a wet nurse for a few hours. Lysa refused. She had heard a few serving women whispering that it would be a “blessing” if the Hand’s sickly son died quickly and peacefully. She couldn’t trust anyone but herself with her son’s care.

“Please, Lysa, come back to us. The children need you.”

“Their brother needs me more.”

Jon’s voice broke.

“I need you too.”

“Do you?” said Lysa with more venom that she had intended. “You already have an heir and two girls to spare. Why would you need me?”

Her husband looked pained.

“Do you think I only value you as the mother of my children?”

“Why would I think differently? I’ve seen you with the children, Jon, I’ve seen how much you love them but you’ve never shown such love to me! I’m only the soiled woman who you condescend to be kind to because she gave you the heirs you needed.”

“Have you been thinking these things for nine years?” said Jon, alarmed. “Such a fool I’ve been. If only I had been more honest...”

He closed his eyes in pain.

“I know I’m an old decrepit man. I feared that, if I showed you too much affection, you would be embarrassed by it, even repulsed.”

“What about my broken maidenhead? I know how proud and honorable you are. It must bother you.”

“It did. I admit that, when I first wed you, I was apprehensive. But, every day of every year, you’ve proven me wrong. I fell in love with you, Lysa. I hid it because _I_ was feeling unworthy, of your beauty and your youth, not because I found you lacking. You’ve more than redeemed the mistake you made in your youth and it is nothing to me now.”

“Oh, Jon, do you truly mean it?” asked Lysa with tears in her eyes.

“Of course I do. I’m sorry I’ve been such a poor husband to you.”

“No, you were right,” Lysa said, wiping her tears. “At the beginning of our wedding, I only saw you as an old man and I probably wouldn’t have welcomed your affection. It was only after I saw your kindness and your love for the children that I wanted you to love me too.”

“Lysa, you must trust me with our son. I will make sure he has the best care possible. I swear to you, no one will hurt him.”

“I can’t leave him. What if he dies and I’m not here?” Lysa burst into tears again. Her husband gathered her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulders.

“Our son won’t die,” he whispered in her ear. “He may be sickly but he is an Arryn and a Tully and he will endure.”

Lysa was happy to hear real conviction in Jon’s voice. _I’m not the only one to believe in our son. He has not given up on him either._

Gently, she passed the sleeping boy to his father. She was glad to see Jon cradle him delicately.

“Have you named him yet?”

Lysa shook her head no.

“With your permission, I would call him Robert, for the strongest boy I ever raised. Our Robert will probably never be able to wield a war hammer but he will live to find his own strength.”

 

§§§

 

Their Sweetrobin did live but Lysa had to part with a son nonetheless. Elbert turned eight and was sent to foster in Runestone. It tore Lysa’s heart in two to see her son go but Jon had stressed how important it was for Elbert to spend time in the Vale. _“One day, soon perhaps, Elbert will be Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East. His people must know him and he must know them.”_ Lysa had finally relented after Jon had promised her she could go and see Elbert as often as she wanted.

Lysa waited two years for Sweetrobin to be old and strong enough that she felt comfortable to leave him in King’s Landing. Then she took the girls on a ship to Gulltown. It was a wonderful trip. Their first stop was, of course, Runestone to see Elbert and then the Eyrie so the girls could know their father’s seat. But, once it was over, Lysa found herself strangely unwilling to go back. She missed Jon and her Sweetrobin but she hadn’t seen her sister in twelve years.

Lysa had spent a lot of time in their youth resenting Cat for being older, more beautiful, more loved. Now that she was happy with Jon and the children, a lot of that bitterness was gone and Lysa remembered the best moments of their shared childhood, sun-baked afternoons spent swimming in the Tumblestones, nights of laugher and gossip. She missed her oldest sister, her friend and confidante. Of course, they had never stopped writing to each other but it was not the same. And there were the girls to think about too; they had never met their Stark cousins and were eager to visit Winterfell.

Thus Lysa found herself writing to her sister. Cat’s answer was prompt and enthusiastic so they took another boat to White Harbor and then a wheelhouse to Winterfell.

Lysa did not like the North. She had lived all her life in Riverrun and King’s Landing so it was simply too cold and desolate for her taste. However, the welcome they received in Winterfell more than made up in warmth for the climate. Cat embraced her tightly and kissed her on both cheeks. Eddard Stark greeted her with a courteous bow and a small smile but, after hearing a lot about him from Jon and reading even more from Cat, Lysa knew his frozen face hid a good heart.

As for the girls, they soon mingled together. Minisa liked pretty dresses and lemon cakes like Sansa but she lacked her cousin’s sweetness and perfect manners. Jon and Lysa had been so happy to have a living child that they had spoilt her rotten. Minisa had grown wilful and headstrong, with terrible bouts of temper, but also bold and beautiful. She hated sewing, found it stupid and a waste of her time, and often shirked her lessons to play with Arya.

Lessa also spend time with both her cousins. Whether she was riding with Arya or sitting with Sansa, her company was always quiet and unobtrusive. The opposite of her brash sister, Lessa spoke little and preferred the world inside her own head to the world outside.

They stayed a long time in Winterfell, long enough to see Cat safely give birth to her fifth child, a boy named Rickon. Then, they left the happy Stark family to welcome their new member and returned to King’s Landing.

All in all, they had been gone almost a year. Lysa found her Sweetrobin much changed. As her son was weak and prompt to fit of shaking sickness, he could not roughhouse with the other boys. To keep him happy and occupied, Jon had spent a lot of time with Sweetrobin, filling his evenings with stories and hiring a special tutor for him during the day. Not only the boy and his father had developed a special bond but her Sweetrobin’s intellect had been sharpened by the experience. “The boy can never be a knight but, perhaps one day he will sit on the King’s Council as Grand Maester,” Jon said once to Lysa.

She had never loved her husband as much as in that instant. How many lesser men would have dismissed Robert, thinking him worth nothing because of the weakness of his arms and legs? Instead, Jon saw as much value in him as in his healthier siblings.

Unlike her father, her husband did not play favorite between his children. Minisa was his eldest darling girl, Elbert his heir, Lessa the sweet child who reminded of his mother and Sweetrobin his brave, clever boy and he loved them all equally.

 

§§§

 

Minisa flowered at two-and-ten and soon, the betrothal offers abounded.

There were many from Jon’s bannermen and other minor Lords but also two from great Houses. These ones Lysa considered the most carefully.

The first came from Mace Tyrell, on behalf of his son and heir Willas. He was ten years older than Minisa and crippled. However, as Lysa’s husband was forty years older than her and her son considered by some little better than a cripple, Willas’s age or his bad leg were no concern of Lysa’s. She had never met Willas and had heard little about him, mostly about his fine breeding of horses and dogs. He was said to be kind but Prince Joffrey was also said to be gallant. _Words are winds and appearances mean little and less._

Minisa’s second potential suitor, Prince Quentyn Martell, was even more of a mystery. All that Lysa knew about him, she had learnt from Doran Martell’s letter: his son was four-and-ten and currently squiring for Lord Yronwood. As Quentyn had an older sister, he would never inherit Sunspear so, as far as lands and titles were concerned, Willas Tyrell was the better party. However, Minisa, with her headstrongness, would perhaps be happier in Dorne than in the Reach.

Lysa put back the two letters. Before anything was decided, Minisa would have to meet the young men at least once. Thankfully, they had plenty of time. If Lysa was honest of her, she wasn’t ready to let go of her daughter yet. Minisa was still a child and she would stay with her for six more years at least.

With her daughter’s flowering came something more unpleasant than letters.

Lysa and the children often dined with Petyr Baelish. Lysa’s former love had risen fast and high with her help. His appointment as Master of Coin two years past had still come as a surprise though.

In the earliest, most unhappy years of her marriage, Lysa had often thought wistfully about Petyr. However, as her relationship with her husband warmed, these feelings had mostly faded away.

It had been strange, seeing Petyr again. She had grown so much from the girl that had once loved him in Riverrun. Still, Petyr remained dear to her and she thought he would always be.

She was wrong.

Petyr watched Minisa. Oh, he didn’t stare or leer. His eyes were cold, weighing her daughter up like a morsel of meat.

Lysa knew who he was thinking of. Her younger self had been happy enough to fool herself into believing Petyr loved her but she knew better now. Petyr had loved Cat, still loved her so obsessively he searched for her in her twelve-year-old niece’s face.

It chilled Lysa to the bones. Minisa was a child. He had no right to look at her like that, no right to think of her as a potential replacement for Cat. Minisa was her own person, as different from her aunt in character as she was similar in looks.

Lysa spoke to Jon about it. He was surprised but did not question her claims. _He blames himself for not noticing anything, the sweet man._

“I can’t send him away. The need for his skill with money is too great. But I can make sure he will never see you or Minisa again.”

Lysa nodded, relieved.

 

§§§

 

Something preyed on her husband’s mind. It ate away at him but he refused to speak of it. He was afraid she would be in danger, if she knew. Lysa disagreed. Nothing could be more dangerous that walking blind. Jon had to admit she was right. He confessed to her, in a whisper, his suspicions about the Queen.

It was frightening, how much sense it made. The Queen’s children had nothing Baratheon about them, not the eyes, not the hair, neither the strong jaws, nor the broad shoulders. They were wholly Lannister.

Lysa had liked the younger children, bright Myrcella and sweet Tommen. To think they had been born of the vilest of relationship... _Not just adultery, but incest._ Lysa pitied them but, mostly, she feared for Jon.

She urged him to tell everything to the King. The book, the bastards, they were proof of the Queen’s adultery and her children’s bastardy. The King would believe him.

“If I speak to Robert, he will have the Queen and the Kingslayer’s head. How do think Tywin Lannister will react when his children are executed and his grandchildren called bastards? The man is proud, powerful, ruthless. He will claim that Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are the first blond Baratheons because the Lannister blood is simply strong in Cersei. That Robert invented everything to get rid of her. Who can prove him wrong? He will go to war for his grandchildren’s claim and many will follow him.”

“What if there was absolute proof of the Queen’s adultery and incest? What if she was caught with her brother in the act?”

Jon looked at her attentively.

“It would make it impossible for anyone to defend her. But the Queen won’t allow herself to be caught.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Lysa, you can’t! It’s too dangerous.”

“I can. To keep us safe, I must.”

“Then I should be doing it. I am the one putting this family in danger.”

“Jon, we both you’re too honorable to successfully execute such a scheme. But I am a Tully, and for me, family comes before everything, even honor. I will get you the proofs you need, even if I must bring the High Septon himself to the Queen’s bedchambers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, Lysa manages to catch Cersei, she and Jaime are executed, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen (Waters) become hostages to keep Tywin in check. Robert marries Margaery Tyrell and get to the business of fathering a trueborn son. 
> 
> Everything seems well... but the Targaryen are across the Narrow Sea, determined to regain their throne, and the Lannister lion still has claws.


	6. Jon is Eddard Stark's legitimate child, Sansa is the bastard (Jon and Sansa roleswap)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make things clear, in this fic :   
> Jon Stark is Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn's second child. He is eleven.   
> Sansa Snow is Lord Eddard's bastard daughter. She is fourteen.

As Sansa sewed, she let her mind wander.

The King was to come to Winterfell, with the Queen and the royal children. There was no way Lady Stark would let her sit at the High Table during their visit. How would Prince Joffrey ever notice her if she was kept out of his sight?

Arya would probably be sitting next to the Prince, bedecked in grey wool and soft white satin. Sansa would give anything to wear the Stark colors. Instead, Lady Stark gave her simple black dresses, befitting a bastard.

Black didn’t suit Sansa. Her skin tone was so pale that it made her look washed out. At least, the black wool provided a striking contrast to Lady’s snow-white fur.

Sansa missed her direwolf. Lady Stark had forbidden Arya from bringing her pup to needlework so Sansa was also forbidden to bring hers. It was a pity, because Lady was already so well-behaved. _Certainly better-behaved than Arya,_ she thought unkindly.

It felt petty to resent her sister so much. _She’s only nine. She’s far too young to know how lucky she is._ But, no matter how hard Sansa tried to be the bigger person, it hurt each time she saw Arya ruin another beautiful dress or get scolded by Lady Stark for skipping a dancing lesson.

_If I were her daughter, Lady Stark would never be upset with me._ Sansa could do everything a lady could, sew, dance, sing, write poetry, even play the high harp. At the beginning, she thought doing those things would endear her to Lady Stark.

She had been childishly wrong. Lady Stark looked at her accomplishments and saw only how inadequate her own daughter was next to her husband’s bastard. She was never cruel but the cold way she looked at Sansa cut deeper than any unkind words.

Sansa liked Lady Stark. She thought her beautiful and a true lady, everything Arya was not. When she had been younger, Sansa had sometimes thought that there was some kind of mistake, that she was Lady Stark’s trueborn daughter and Arya was the bastard. She looked nothing like Lady Stark but Arya didn’t either. They both had the Stark look, their father’s dark hair and grey eyes.

Once, Sansa had been small and scrawny like Arya but, after her flowering, she had shot up like a weed and her form had filled out, quickly becoming womanly. Now, men looked at her with lust in their eyes. _They would never dare look at Arya like that, not at Eddard Stark’s trueborn daughter._

Soon, Sansa knew she would be married. Some second or third son of a Lord would surely be willing to wed her, for her Stark roots and to curry favor with her father. Her husband would probably be landless. She would never have a keep of her own and her sons would be stewards and master-at-arms, never Lords or Princes.

_Prince Joffrey._ Sansa couldn’t help smiling when she thought about him. Perhaps he would notice her in spite of bastardy. Everyone said she was the spitting image of her aunt and Lady Lyanna had been so beautiful that Prince Rhaegar had left his wife so they could elope together. Sansa knew this song had ended badly but it would be different for her. _Prince Joffrey is not engaged and neither I am._ _If we fell in love, the King could legitimize me. Prince Joffrey can’t marry a bastard but perhaps he could be betrothed to Lady Sansa Stark, firstborn daughter of the Warden of the North._

Of course, Sansa knew such things would most likely never happen. Princes and high Lords did not even _notice_ bastards. Still, it was pleasant to dream a little.

Once her needlework was finished, she would go to the godswood and pray. _Please, let the royal family notice me.  
_

* * *

Sansa had been allowed to be in the courtyard for the arrival of the King’s party. She stood three paces behind her trueborn siblings, next to her father’s ward. Theon looked at her from head to toe and smiled at her smarmily.

Sansa ignored him. Theon wasn’t so bad. He never went farther than the occasional off-color joke, probably out of respect for Robb. Others had done more – groped her, pinched her ass – but her father and brothers had quickly put an end to it.

In that, Sansa knew she was very lucky. Her four brothers cared for her as if she were trueborn. Even Arya, who found Sansa stupid and dull because she liked dresses and lemon cakes, had never judged her because of her bastardy. Arya was many things – wild, stubborn and _infuriating_ most of all – but she was fair and never intentionally cruel to her bastard half-sister.

Her place of dishonor forgotten, Sansa watched her siblings’ backs with a small smile on her face. Yes, all of them were dear to her.

The one she was closest to was probably Jon. Robb was nearer to her age but he had duties as heir to Winterfell and the company of Theon Greyjoy. She had more in common with Jon. A second son, less handsome and more discreet than Robb, he knew what it was to stand in the shadow of one’s sibling.

Of course, their situations were not exactly the same. Jon was trueborn, Eddard Stark’s son in both looks and temper. And, unlike Sansa, he had some measure of control on his own fate.

Jon would soon escape Robb’s shadow. In a moon’s turn, he would depart for the Vale of Arryn to become his uncle Brynden’s squire.

Sansa would miss his company. Jon was only eleven but he was so thoughtful and serious that he seemed older. He was also very perceptive. When he had found Lady, half-starved in the snow and away from her pack, Jon had brought her to Sansa. Everyone else had doubted that she, always the perfect lady, would want a wild animal. Jon had known better.

She had been set aside from her trueborn siblings so often. Not this time. Lady may have been the runt of the litter but she was still a direwolf, and she was Sansa’s. _We have the same blood. I am a Stark without the name so I must be braver, cleverer._

The King’s arrival interrupted Sansa’s reflexions. She was awed by Prince Joffrey’s handsomeness and the Queen’s elegance. The King did not impress her, though. The best that could be said about him was that he seemed to be a very close friend of her father.

After embracing Lady Stark, the King shot a look at the Stark children. He got a glimpse of Sansa from behind her brothers’ shoulders and brutally froze.

Sansa tried to put on her most courteous smile but it felt shaky. The King was watching her with a look that could only be described as pure wonder.

“Lya,” he whispered.

Sansa felt her cheeks redden. _He’s mistaking me for Aunt Lyanna._ Should she speak? Introduce herself? She was about to stammer something when her father neatly cut in:

“Your Grace, this is my natural daughter, Sansa Snow.”

Sansa curtsied so quickly she almost fell. She must have looked as gauche as Arya but her cheeks were still burning. Everyone was _looking_ at her.

The King was staring. The lust in his gaze was sickeningly familiar. Sansa swallowed back bile. _Please, turn away._

“May I talk to you for a moment, Your Grace?” asked her father and Sansa thanked the old gods and the new.

Ned Stark practically dragged his friend away which, with the King’s girth, was no small feat. When the crunching of snow under the two men’s boots could no longer be heard, there was a moment of complete silence in the yard.

Everyone was still looking at Sansa. The royal family’s stares were the worse. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella looked at her in incomprehension. Prince Joffrey watched her with contempt etched on his beautiful face. As for the Queen, Sansa saw fury and hatred flash in her eyes before she coolly composed herself again.

Lady Stark quickly stepped in, taking charge of their royal visitors. Sansa stood frozen where she was, utterly unable of moving. Her cheeks were beet red and her heart was beating so fast it seemed about to burst. She had never felt more ashamed in her life. 

* * *

Robert looked at the stone-carved face of his betrothed. The sculptor had captured her likeness well, but no statue could truly do justice to her beauty.

He remembered Lyanna perfectly, would always remember her as he had last seen her, a maid of fourteen name days, full of live and loveliness. In the yard, he had believed for an instant that she stood before him again, a ghost miraculously brought back to life.

Then Ned had introduced the girl as his bastard daughter and Robert had seen the small differences. She was taller, perhaps a little older, and shapelier. And her face... It was as though someone had taken Lyanna’s face and magnified its beauty.

The girl was Lyanna come again. She was a gift from the gods. After all these years, the Kingship he never enjoyed, his marriage to Cersei, they were finally cutting him a break. Lyanna would be his, as she had always meant to be.

“Robert.”

He jumped and looked at his best friend. Ned’s eyes looked like chips of grey ice.

“You cannot look at Sansa like that. She is just a child and she is my daughter.”

Robert nearly got angry. He was the King! He could look at any woman he damn well pleased. Who was Ned to forbid it?

Then he laughed at his foolishness. Of course, Ned was angry. He loved his family, had always been protective of them. If Robert had tried to take any liberty with Lyanna before their wedding, Ned would have chewed him out too.

_I want to make your girl my Queen._ But he could not say that to Ned. He would disapprove, would speak of the vows he made to Cersei. Robert didn’t give a damn about the yellow-haired bitch. She could scurry back to Casterly Rock for all he cared.

“Oh, Ned. I won’t touch your girl.” _Not before we’re married anyway._ “She just reminded me so strongly of Lyanna that I lost my mind for an instant.”

Ned looked both incredibly relieved and a little queasy.

“Sansa takes after her aunt, as does Arya. But, aside from their looks, you couldn’t found a girl more different from Lyanna than Sansa.”

Robert had tuned his friend out. Once Ned accepted the Handship, Lady Catelyn would plead with him to take his bastard to King’s Landing. Ned would agree. He would think the prospects for his girl to be better in the capital.

And indeed, what better prospects than to be Queen? 

* * *

At first, Sansa hadn’t wanted to attend the feast at all. She would stay in her room and not show her face until the end of the royal visit.

However, in the middle of the afternoon, her father had called her to his solar. She nearly jumped in her skin when she saw the King was with him but he didn’t stare at her this time. He just smiled and said she reminded her greatly of a lady he had once loved. He asked her to forgive him for his behavior in the yard and, of course, she could do nothing but accept his apology and curtsy prettily. After all, it wasn’t often that a King apologized to a bastard.

Sansa knew she owed it to her father. He would always protect her, even from the King of Seven Kingdoms. That made her smile.

She would go to the feast after all. She was even determined to enjoy it.

Still, Sansa was glad she would not be sitting at the High Table that night. She no longer bemoaned the loss of an opportunity to speak with Prince Joffrey. Her cheeks still burned when she thought about the incident in the yard. She was content to observe the royal family for now.

From her seat between Jeyne Poole and her father, she was in the perfect position to do so. And she was able to bring Lady with her. The direwolf was under the table, eating morsels of food from Sansa’s hands.

The feast went well. The King didn’t look at her once. He seemed entirely occupied by getting roaring drunk and fondling serving girls. The Queen seemed frozen in anger. Still, she caught Sansa’s eyes a few times and smiled at her. Prince Joffrey didn’t even see her. He looked sullen, as if everything in sight was beneath him.

After the food was cleared, people started dancing. Prince Joffrey did not ask her for a dance but Sansa was barely disappointed. She never lacked for partners. Everyone in Winterfell knew she loved to dance and danced well.  

As she was taking a few minutes of rest between dances, Sansa was approached by the Queen’s youngest brother. Tyrion Lannister was even uglier up close. Considering the Queen and Ser Jaime’s beauty, it seemed very unfair.

The Imp cocked his big head to one side and his black eye scrutinized her.

“You managed to get everyone’s attention, Sansa Snow.”

Sansa felt herself blushing. _It wasn’t my fault._

It was also quite rude to say that to her out of blue. Sansa couldn’t afford to be rude. She had been raised as a lady and she couldn’t let anyone say that being born on the wrong side of the sheets made her uncouth.

“My lord of Lannister.” Pretending she didn’t know who he was seemed stupid. “How are you faring? I trust you had a good journey.”

The Imp let out a small laugh.

“Your courtesies are very polished. Hearing you, one would forget you are a bastard.”

Sansa felt as if he had just slapped her.

“I know what I am, my lord,” she said, unable to keep the coldness out of her voice.

“Good. Never forget it, for the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

_You have no idea what being a bastard is like. You are a Lord of House Lannister, the Queen’s brother. You wear crimson velvet slashed with gold, go everywhere, act as you please. Do you think I need your advice, dwarf?_

Sansa swallowed angry tears and replied as calmly as she could:

“I will take your advice to heart, my lord.”

“You have a cool head. It will serve you well in King’s Landing.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

The Imp smiled at her.

“You are not surprised, are you?”

_Is he taking me for an idiot?_

“The King didn’t visit Winterfell for many years. For him to come so soon after the death of Lord Arryn, the previous Hand of the King... it seems likely he wants to offer my father the Handship.”

“And you are sure Lord Stark will accept it?”

“How could he refuse his friend, his King?”

“Your father might not take you with him.”

“I merely hope he might.”

“What exactly are you hoping for? For some dashing knight to marry you for your beauty? It could happen. But your face can endanger you as easily as it can help you.”

_The King apologized. He did! And Father will protect me._

Her fear must have shone in her eyes or in the slightest quiver of her mouth because the Imp said:

“I see that you are well aware of the danger. When you are in King’s Landing, trust no one, my lady. Not my goodbrother and his apology, not my sister and her smiles, not my handsome nephew nor anyone in court who claims to be your friend. All this distrust will sour your stomach and bring lines to that lovely face of yours, ‘tis true, but better that than dead or... ruined.” The Imp looked unusually grave as he uttered the last word.

_He... cares. He is genuinely trying to help._

“I thank you for your concern, my lord,” said Sansa more warmly. “But are you advising me against trusting you?” she added with a small smile.

“I am only a little lion, and quite unable to savage you, my lady,” answered Tyrion in the same tone.

Sansa did not agree. Tyrion Lannister missed nothing and he had wealth and power to match his wits. _A dangerous man, but perhaps not an unkind one, in spite of his terrible manners._

“Is this a direwolf?” the dwarf asked, pointing at Lady.

The direwolf had gotten out of under the table and jumped on the unoccupied chair next to Sansa.

“Yes. You may pet her if you want, my lord. Lady, stay still.”

The direwolf accepted the Imp’s caresses easily enough but her red eyes still followed his every movement. Like her mistress, Lady was always wary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never disliked Sansa but I only grew to truly like her as Alayne Stone. I love older, less naive, more badass Sansa. This fic is basically: what if Sansa had been like that from the get-go ?  
> Also, in this fic, R+L=S. Sansa is even more beautiful than Lyanna because she also has some of her father's good looks. Therefore, Ned is both creeped out and terrified by the attention Robert pays her. 
> 
> I also really like Jon and I am a sucker for AUs where he is the trueborn son of Ned and Catelyn. In case you're wondering, his direwolf has dark, smoky grey fur. His name is Shadow and he's still completly silent.


	7. Cat is a Stark, Ned is a Tully (Ned/Cat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently read an OS where Cat was born a Stark and I realized she would truly belong into the Northern house. Likewise, Ned would make a perfect Tully. If R+L=J is true, he lied to his wife, lied to his friend, lied to his King to protect Jon. He also made a false confession to protect his daughters. Family will always come first for Ned, before duty and honor. 
> 
> So, in this AU, Eddard 'Ned' Tully is Lord Hoster's firstborn and Catelyn 'Cat' Stark is Lord Rickard's second child and eldest daughter.

“You can’t mean to lead the men yourself, my lady! There are many loyal, seasoned men who could take the command.”

Cat nodded. Ser Jon Cassel had a point. But leaving a Bolton, a Karstark or an Umber to lead their host South did not feel right. _A Stark must avenge Brandon and Father. A Stark_ _must save Lyanna._

_Ben is the Lord of Winterfell but he is only ten. So it has to be me._

“I don’t mean to swing a sword myself, Ser Jon.” Lyanna would have loved that. How she would have laughed, imagining her ladylike older sister waving a sword around. Catelyn suppressed a wince and banished the memory of her sister’s laughter. “We both now I am unable to. However, I do mean to sit on the war council and make my voice heard.”

Maester Walys looked at her while idly playing with the chain of his order. A balding man with a protruding belly, Walys always looked as if he was involved in a plot or three. But he was also smart and surprisingly frank for someone so calculating. Her father had always valued his counsel.

“The men will not accept you, my lady.”

“They will if Ben orders them to.”

“Lord Stark is only a child. They will humor him but they won’t respect you.”

“They need a leader but they won’t ever agree on one. Half of them cannot abide each other and all of them want more power. I can use that. I can make them listen to me.”

Catelyn was suddenly reminded of something her mother had told her long ago, just before her death. _A Flint’s head is harder than the mountain._

Cat had her mother’s blue eyes, her round face. She was a Stark but she was also a Flint and she would be as hardheaded as she needed to deal with her brother’s bannermen.

* * *

Cat didn’t know what to make of her new betrothed.

Ned Tully had a square face, neither handsome, nor particularly plain, with bright blue eyes and a bushy red beard. Brandon had called him a terrible bore but, after an evening sitting next to him, Catelyn thought he was simply pensive and quiet. He spoke little, nodded as he listened to her, smiled when she made a jape. All the while, he looked at her face very attentively. It was kind of flattering, really.

“Do you know I was almost betrothed twice?”

“Really?”

“The first was to our future King. My father invited Robert Baratheon to Winterfell in hope of betrothing him to me but he fell in love with Lyanna instead.”

Ned looked at her with a pained expression. He clearly assumed she had been upset Robert chose her younger sister over her. Cat hadn’t: a small, selfish part of her had been glad not to have to marry such a man but, mostly, she had worried for Lyanna. Robert would soon tire of her wildness and Lyanna would never accept a cheating husband. It was a terrible match but one their father had approved of.

_I should have done something, anything. If I had, perhaps she wouldn’t have run off with Rhaegar Targaryen._

Robert Baratheon thought the Crown Prince had taken his betrothed by force but Cat knew better. Lyanna’s looks and interests were boyish but she had a romantic heart. Cat would always remember the tears running on her sister’s face as she had listened to Rhaegar Targaryen’s song in Harrenhal. Older, beautiful, gallant Rhaegar. What had he promised Lyanna to make her run away with him? Freedom? True love? Cat felt her hands clenching into fists. How had that monster preyed on her sister?

“My lady? Are you alright?”

Cat raised her head and met Ned Tully’s worried eyes. She had been so embroiled in her thoughts of Lyanna than she hadn’t realised she had been silent for five whole minutes.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I was thinking of Lyanna.”

Ned looked apologetic again.

“We will find her, my lady,” he said gravely.

He looked sincere but Cat had no wishes to discuss Lyanna with an almost complete stranger. _Tomorrow, this stranger will be my husband. Tomorrow, I will be Lady Catelyn Tully._ It felt surreal.Cat forced a smile and went on:

“My second almost-betrothal was with Ser Jaime Lannister. We got on well and my father thought it was a done deal but Ser Jaime chose the Kingsguard instead.”

Cat remembered Jaime’s time in Winterfell with fondness. He was three years younger than her, charming, cocky and exceedingly handsome. They had played at kissing in the godswood.

What would have happened if she had married him? _I would be sitting on my hands in Casterly Rock._ Her marriage to Ned Tully and Ben’s marriage to Lysa would bind the Riverlands to their cause. It was all that mattered.

Cat threw a look at her soon-to-be goodsister. Lysa was wearing black and her eyes were red with crying. The girl had clearly loved Brandon with all her heart. It seemed cruel to pack her off to Winterfell to marry his baby brother.

 _At least, the marriage won’t be consumed any time soon. They will have time to get to know each other. And I know for sure Benjen will be a good husband to her._ Would Ned Tully be a good husband? He had not seemed upset that his wife would ride to war with him, leading the Northern army. Hoster Tully had wanted his son to take command but Catelyn had insisted. Ned Tully was a man but he was no _Northman_. He would never be, no more than she would ever be Southron.

 _Can I be Lady Tully? Can I be a Southron wife?_ Riverrun was beautiful but everything felt so unfamiliar. Even the godswood hardly felt like a godswood at all!

 _“Here in the south, they say you are all made of ice, and melt when you ride below the Neck.”_ It had been a jape, from Lord Hoster’s ward, Petyr Baelish. The boy’s eyes had reminded her of Maester Walys’ but there was something in his smile that she hadn’t liked at all. But that boy was her betrothed’s closest friend so she had smiled back and replied:

_“Do not worry on my account, Lord Baelish. I have no intention of melting.”_

* * *

Catelyn looked down at her son’s sleeping face. He was so beautiful. With his red hair and blue eyes, Robb looked just like her husband.

 _Robb._ Her son’s name was the only thing she did not like about him. It was also a transparent attempt to please the King.

When Tywin Lannister had presented to the King three corpses wrapped in crimson cloaks and Robert Baratheon had dared to smile, her husband had exploded. He had yelled at the King that he had no honor, that no true King would build his reign of the murder of a mother and her children.

Catelyn had whole-heartedly agreed with him but she had known better than to open her mouth. Her husband was a good man, honorable to the bones, but his honor could make him forego caution far too easily. Robert Baratheon, as a newly-minted rebel King, was in no position to hurt him now but in the future... Cat had then touched her own pregnant belly and felt a queasiness that had nothing to do with morning sickness.

It had fallen to her to smooth out the relation between her husband and the King. She had pushed Ned to leave King’s Landing quickly, to ride South to lift the Siege of Storm’s End. She had been too heavily pregnant to go with him.  

Catelyn did not regret Robb, could not regret her beloved son, but she still wished he had been born just a little later.

“ _Wherever Rhaegar hiding her_ , _I will find your sister. She is my family too.”_   Ned had promised and his kiss on her lips had tasted both bitter and sweet.

* * *

Her husband returned to her with the Northern and Riverlands armies at his back and her sister’s body wrapped in a shroud.

Robert Baratheon raged and accused Ned of finding her too late. Cat threw one look at her husband’s haunted eyes and hugged him tightly, the rest of the court be damned. _He didn’t know her but he mourns her all the same._

Cat wished she could mourn her family, wished she could curl into a ball and cry all the tears she had withheld, for Father, for Brandon, for Lya. _When I have laid Lya to rest next to Father and Bran, I will allow myself to be weak. Just for an hour. Just for a day._

As long as she was under the King’s roof, she had to be strong. She would not fail her husband and son as she had failed her sister.

She led her husband away from the King, leaving Robert Baratheon to drown in his grief and forget his anger. She took Ned to her chambers where Robb was asleep in his crib.

“Come and meet your son, my lord. Robb Tully.”

Her husband’s face softened into a wondrous smile as he held their son.

“He is perfect, Cat. I’m so happy that you are both safe. When I saw your sister, I was also afraid that...”

Catelyn’s eyes widened. Ned put Robb back into his crib and took her hands.

“It wasn’t a fever that killed her. It was childbirth.”

“What happened to the babe?”

“A healthy boy. Your sister named him Jon. When I arrived, she was delirious. She didn’t know me and she was panicked. I did my best to explain to her who I was. Then, she clutched my hands and made me promise to keep her son safe.”

Catelyn looked into his husband’s eyes and knew they were thinking of the same thing. Small bodies wrapped in crimson. _Dragonspawn._

“Thankfully, the babe has no Targaryen features. He looks a great deal like your sister... and your brother, Brandon.”

“So you want to make him pass for Brandon’s bastard?” said Catelyn tiredly.

“I see no other way, my lady. Your brother Benjen is too young. Everyone has seen you pregnant with another child. And Brandon... your brother was known to enjoy the company of women.”

“No need to sugarcoat anything, Ned. I knew my brother. I just wished we didn’t have to lie about him after his death. But go on. Where is my nephew now?”

“Howland Reed and I were the only survivors of the fight with the Kingsguard. He seemed a man of valor and honor. I confided him the babe. He will bring Jon to the Riverlands, where we can pretend to find him.”

“Brandon’s bastard, fathered just before his death on a Riverlands wench who died in childbirth. And I, a soft-hearted grieving woman, insisting to take my brother’s son home. Jon will live with us, won’t he, Ned?”

“Of course. He is, after all, family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many potential in this AU. Jon being raised in Riverrun by Cat and Ned. Lysa being happily married to Benjen. Ned hating Robert's guts and being BFF with Petyr Baelish (with friends like these...)


	8. Rickard Stark has no Southern ambitions (Brandon/Barbrey, Lyanna/Domeric)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happened because, when I read A Dance with Dragons, I realized two things:
> 
> 1) I really like Domeric Bolton. I think the idea of a good Bolton is very interesting. Also, when I read the chapter about Ramsay and Jeyne's sad wedding, I couldn't stop re-imagining it as a happy wedding between Domeric and Lyanna.  
> Domeric/Lyanna is my favorite Lyanna ship because, even if Rhaegar and Lyanna loved each other, I don't think Lyanna would have been very happy as his Queen. Lyanna's wedding Domeric allows her to remain in the North and she will be indefinitely freer as a Northern lady than as a Southern queen. Plus, Lyanna kicking Ramsay's ass = gold. 
> 
> 2) I really don't like Barbrey Dustin. 
> 
> You see, I can feel great sympathy for Cersei or Lysa who have done horrible things but also have led fairly shitty lives. But Barbrey Dustin really annoys me. I couldn't take any of her bitching and moaning about how the Starks totally wronger her (which they kinda didn't). And when she told Theon she would throw poor Ned's bones to her dogs, it was the last straw. I was like: "wow really, I know he didn't bring you your husband's body (whose death was not his fault, btw) but, as far as you know, Ned was branded as a traitor and decapitated, Catelyn was murdered and thrown naked into a river, Robb was also murdered and they sewed his direwolf's head unto his body, Sansa is accused of murder and is on the run, Arya is marrying a monster, Bran and Rickon were betrayed and killed by someone they grew up with. Haven't the Starks suffered enough? Do you really need to do THAT?" It seems I can handle cruelty just fine but pettiness really gets to me.
> 
> So this is Barbrey's AU, folks. The AU where all of Barbrey's dreams come true and then, turn really really sour.

_It should have been a Karstark or an Umber, not the Ryswell girl._

Lord Rickard Stark looked glumly at the bottom of his wine cup. He had never liked Rodrik Ryswell and the way he practically flung his youngest daughter in Brandon’s arms, with absolutely no regards for propriety. _The man has too much ambition and too little honor._

It would have pleased Rickard to marry Brandon to any other girl but there hadn’t been many suitable matches to choose from. _Donella Manderly was too old, Maege Mormont too poor, Sybelle Locke too lowborn and Berena Hornwood too homely._

Rickard knew his son. He would wed an ugly wench for duty’s sake but never keep to her bed. Not that he was sure that Brandon would keep to Barbrey’s bed.

Oh, he liked the girl well enough. It was obvious in the way he exchanged smiles and japes with her. He refilled her wine cup and cut her meat for her. His words were gallant but his eyes undressed his new bride.

He was not the only man in the assistance to stare at her lustily. Dressed in black and bronze and red, her dark hair tumbling on her right shoulder, Barbrey Ryswell looked glowing. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were laughing. _Happy and in love and so, so very young._

Rickard slumped on his seat a little, feeling acutely the weight of his many years. _Affection, lust and puppy love do not a good marriage make._ Was this match a mistake? Should he have married Brandon to Maege Mormont instead? The Mormonts were poor but they were also an old and loyal House, far from undeserving of the honor of marrying Starks. Furthermore, the Mormont women were strong and capable of weathering any storm.

 _Lyra would have known what to do._ The gods had taken her too soon, leaving Rickard to fumble alone with their children’s educations and marriages. _And I have made a mess of it, particularly with Brandon and Lya. Our two wild wolfs._

Rickard sneaked a look at his only daughter. Lyanna seemed to grow more sullen and rebellious every day. Rickard had indulged her too much in her youth and now, she chaffed at the idea of behaving like a lady. _She will have to eventually. She is no longer a little girl but a maiden flowered._

“More wine, my lord?”

Rickard looked up to see the Bolton boy facing him. From afar, the lad looked like a Ryswell, dark-haired and handsome, but, up close, his pale eyes, pale skin and pale pink lips marked him as a scion of House Bolton. He even had his father’s soft voice.

“Yes, my lad.”

Domeric refilled his cup, bowed respectfully and moved over to where Lyanna was sitting. She smiled at him and the boy smiled back, almost shyly. For an instant, he reminded Rickard of none other than his own son, Eddard. Ned had been a shy little boy too.

_Ronnel Bolton was a monster and Roose Bolton seems devoid of emotions but perhaps this one shall be different._

Lyanna, who liked almost no one except her brothers, had taken a shine to the boy. Of course, a maid of thirteen years was not the best judge of character but Lyanna was not stupid and she had a strong sense of honor. If Domeric had shown any sign of being like his forefathers, she would have shunned him instead of befriending him.

In fact, his daughter and the Bolton boy seemed to get on surprisingly well despite the age difference. It was probably because Lyanna still behaved like a half-wild child while Domeric seemed to be quiet and mature for his eight name days.

_As they grow older, the friendship will have to die out or turn into a betrothal._

Rickard had balked at first at the idea of marrying his daughter to a Bolton. However, House Bolton had been a thorn in his foot ever since he first became the Lord of Winterfell. The Starks had crushed the Boltons half a dozen times and forced them to bent the knee and forswear their old way. Yet, Rickard did not doubt that they still practiced many of their barbaric customs in their own lands, only more quietly.

_What swords failed to accomplish, a woman’s soft hands could. Well, not too soft but it’s Lya we’re talking about._

Stark men had often taken Bolton maids to wife; yet, no Bolton man had ever married a Stark. Their ambitions were well-known and Rickard’s forefathers had never dared give the Dreadfort a claim to Winterfell.

_Bran is married and Ned will be soon. They will both have children. The chance of the Boltons getting Winterfell through Lyanna is very slim. Yet, if Lyanna’s sons or grandsons were tempted to rebel against the Starks, their shared blood might prevent them for doing so. Even a Bolton would not anger the gods by slaying his own kin._

A marriage between Bolton and Stark made sense. Yet, could he truly send his daughter to the Dreadfort? Bethany Ryswell, who had been as handsome as her sister in her youth, was a shadow of her former self. She had grown as pale as her husband and her once-busty figure seemed to have melted, leaving nothing but skin and bones.

_Lady Bolton had many miscarriages and stillbirths. It must have taken a toll on her health. Also, I doubt Roose Bolton was a kind and supportive husband to her._

_It all depends on the boy. If he is like my Ned and hides a gentle heart between his queer manners, I will speak to Roose about betrothing him to Lya._

As Domeric was set to stay three years in Winterfell as his aunt’s cupbearer, Rickard would not lack for opportunities to watch the boy and find out his true nature.

* * *

Lyanna frowned at her needlework. She was having no more luck stitching the flayed man of House Bolton than the direwolf of Stark. _One of his legs is shorter than the other._

Lyanna threw the halfway done kerchief unto the table and looked mournfully out of the window. She itched to go outside. It was the ideal weather to walk in the godswood or go riding with Dom. But here she was, locked up inside because her father wanted her to spend at least half the day doing “ladylike activities”.  
At first, the castle’s other girls had sat with her but Lyanna could not stand their chatter so she had asked her father to send them away. She preferred to be alone or just in the company of Dom.

Her friend needed to practice his own “ladylike activity”, the high harp. Lady Bethany played it and had wanted Domeric to learn as well. Lord Bolton had consented because he thought the difficult mastery of the instrument would teach his son patience.

Hearing Domeric practice, Lyanna had to agree with Lord Bolton. In order to learn a new piece, Dom had to play the most difficult parts over and over again. Normally, Lyanna did not mind. She just let the soothing sounds of the harp wash her over without truly listening. But everything irked that day so she turned to Domeric and said hotly:

“Can’t you play anything else? Why do you even play the harp anyway? It’s so girly.”

Dom stopped playing abruptly.

“Prince Rhaegar plays the high harp. If the Prince of Dragonstone does it, then it’s not girly.”

The boy did not color – he never colored, even though his skin was pasty – but he spoke a little too quickly, as he always did when he was upset.

“I’m sorry, Dom. I’m just antsy because I have to sit around all day, doing nothing but stupid things like embroidery.”

“Needlework is not so bad. It’s calming and it teaches patience.”

“Of which you have too much and I have none of.”

Once, as a joke, Lyanna had dumped her embroidery into Domeric’s lap. The boy had proven to be much better at it that she was. His thin long fingers had all the nimbleness Lyanna’s lacked. She had joked then that Domeric would make a far better lady than she but it was not completely true. Dom was also a good swordsman and an excellent rider. It almost seemed as if her friend had set his mind to excel in everything, as if he had something to prove.

Domeric started plucking the cords of his harps again.

“Patience is a useful thing to have. Sometimes, getting what you want requires a great deal of it.”

“And sometimes not,” said Lyanna, a little exasperated. “I wish I could learn to fight and joust, just like you will. Instead, when you come back from the Vale, I will probably already be married to a lordling and fat with his child.”

At sixteen, she knew she should have been betrothed already. She dreaded the moment her father would finally speak to her about marriage. She was not so foolish as to think that day would not come.

“I wonder who it will be. The Karstarks, Umbers and Manderly are all hounding Father about my hand. He must have a hard time choosing between them,” Lyanna added bitterly.

Domeric did not answer. He seemed concentrated on his harp but...

“Do _you_ know anything about it?”

He looked up innocently.

“Come on, Dom, I can see your eyes smiling even if your mouth isn’t. If you know anything, you must tell me.”

“I don’t _know_ anything. I just have an idea.”

Lyanna tried to wrestle it out of him but Dom would not speak.

“If I’m wrong, I’d rather you not know it. I don’t want you to think I’m stupid.”

Lyanna smiled. Dom was so serious that she sometimes forgot he was only eleven.

“You are a great many things, Domeric Bolton, but stupid is not one of them.”

“If I’m right, you’ll know about it very soon,” said Domeric and he refused to speak another word on the subject.

It seemed Dom was right because her father sent her to his solar a few days after that conversation. Lord Rickard started with a little speech about how the loyalty of its bannermen contributed to the might of House Stark, probably to cow Lyanna into doing her duty by marrying one of them.

“However, continued her father, there has been one House whose loyalty to us has always been doubtful at best. Roose Bolton has given me no cause to complain but I only trust him as far as I can throw him.”

“Then, you need only wait for Domeric to become Lord of the Dreadfort and all your problems will be solved.”

Her father looked at her shrewdly.

“You have spent a great deal of time with the boy. What do you think of him?”

“Domeric is a good boy and loyal friend. He may behave like his father but he is nothing like him.”

Lyanna had seen Roose Bolton only twice, at her brothers’ weddings, and she had intensely disliked him. He was quiet and soft-spoken, like Dom, but something about him felt _off_. While Domeric’s reserved nature hid a kind heart, Lyanna suspected Lord Bolton was just a cold, emotionless husk of man. He certainly never showed any warmth towards Dom, in spite of the boy’s obvious desire for his approval.

“Good, good. Then, you can have no objection to marrying him?”

“Marrying Dom? He’s a _baby_!”

“He’s only five years younger than you. More unequal matches are made every day.”

Lyanna wetted her lips. She had never thought of Domeric as a marriage prospect. He was more like a baby brother, like Ben. But, now that her father had told it, the match seemed obvious. A five-year difference between two adults was nothing. And how could one better bind House Bolton to House Stark than by marriage?

 _Dom’s my friend. He understands me. He won’t try to change me._ Dom was the boy who sneaked to the godswood with her. The boy who tried to teach her everything he learnt in the practice yard and was never upset when she bested him at swordfight. _I should be glad._ All she felt was numb.

Her father looked at her almost anxiously.

“I know marrying a Bolton can be a scary prospect. If you do not feel up for it, I will find you another match.”

“Why would I not be up for it?” aked Lyanna sharply. Her wounded pride had shaken her out of her numbness. _Does he take me for some scared little girl?_

“The Boltons are an old, cruel House. They may have bent the knees but, in the dungeons of the Dreadfort... ” Lord Rickard looked almost embarrassed. “Trying to get Lord Bolton and his men to change their ways will be difficult, even dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of Roose Bolton.”

“I do not doubt your courage, Lya,” said her father almost sadly. “But, when you have to deal with a man like Roose Bolton, you need prudence more than courage. Perhaps another match...”

“Please, Father, I don’t want to spend my life sitting around being useless. I can give you the Boltons. I know I can. And _nothing_ will happen to me. Domeric has enough prudence for the both of us.”

Her father rose from his chair and kissed her forehead.

“If this is your wish, I will write to the Dreadfort about the betrothal. You have grown to be a fine young woman, Lyanna. Your mother would have been proud. She was stubborn and fearless, a Flint through and through.”

Rickard Stark was a gruff man, not fond of overt shows of affection. But, in moments like theses, there was no doubt he dearly loved his children and his late lady wife. Feeling a sudden surge of affection for the old man, Lyanna hugged her father tightly before taking her leave.

She found Domeric in the training yard, sparring with Ben. The two boys were progressing quickly. Lyanna waited until the end of the fight and waved Domeric over to her. She couldn’t help but look at her friend somewhat accusingly.

“You knew.”

Domeric’s eyes widened. His lips twitched, as he held back a smile.

“I didn’t know anything. I merely _hoped_. Are you upset, Lyanna?”

He looked a little like a kicked puppy.

“I’m not upset, just surprised.”

“I know you see me as a baby,” he said, whipping the sweat from his brow. “But, when I come back from the Vale, I’ll be a man grown. I’d really appreciate it if you tried to see me differently then.”

“I will,” promised Lyanna. “And, please, don’t let them change you. I swear to you, Domeric Bolton, once we’re married, if you try to lock me up and make me sew...”

Dom interrupted her with a bark of laughter, a rare occurrence.

“The man able to bend you to his will is not born yet, Lyanna. I wouldn’t try, nor would I want to.”

Lyanna smiled. She had been right about Dom. _He’s the best husband I could hope to have. A friend._

* * *

The godswood was dark and full of whispers.

The night was cold but the springs bathed the wedding guests in their warm vapors. Barbrey felt almost too hot and far too sweaty in her woollen dress. She did not show her discomfort, keeping her head high and her eyes fixed on her nephew.

Domeric was standing beneath the heart tree. The boy had grown tall and handsome, a true Ryswell in looks if not in name. His black velvet doublet made him look even paler, almost like a ghost, but his smile could only belong to a happy youth.

 _If I had had sons, would they have grown up to look like him?_ It was useless to wonder. It had been eight years since Brandon and she had wed before that very tree and her womb had never quickened.

Barbrey Stark was barren. Her husband’s bastard had proven it well enough.

Brandon. She had loved him once. She still thought him beautiful, as he brought his sister to her new husband. The Stark siblings were a match set, both magnificent in pearly grey wool and white fur. A simple crown of blue rose on Lyanna’s dark curls emphasized her wild beauty.

“Who comes before the gods?” said Domeric.

Brandon answered in a clear, strong voice.

“Lyanna of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do. Domeric of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and her eldest brother. Lyanna, will you take this man?”

“I take this man,” said Lyanna, smiling.

The feast after the wedding was especially joyous. Even Roose Bolton seemed satisfied, though he did not smile. Bethany’s face was tired and drawn but she was overjoyed by her son’s marriage and his return to the North.

Barbrey wished she could have sat next to her sister. Instead, she was sandwiched between her insipid goodbrother and his ugly wife.

Lady Lyessa had a round face and a pug’s nose but, as Lord Arthor Flint’s only child, her dowry had been the future Lordship of Widow’s Watch. No wonder Lord Rickard had chosen her to be his second son’s bride.

“Are you well, Lady Stark?” asked Lyessa with a smile. She was always smiling, that woman. Why would she not? She was well-loved. Everyone spoke of her wits and good humor. Even Ned Stark seemed to unfreeze in her presence.

“I am well. Thank you, Lady Lyessa,” Barbrey managed to reply with good grace. _That woman is not my enemy. I’d rather have her whelp inherit Winterfell than Brandon’s bastard._

How ironic, that the Lady of Winterfell’s greatest fear was a yellow-haired whore from Wintertown and the babe at her breast, a dark-haired grey-eyed boy. Willam, her mother had named him. _Willam Snow but never Stark. Brandon wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t dare._

Barbrey wasn’t so sure.

The wedding feast passed in a daze. Soon there were raucous calls for the bedding. Brandon plucked his sister from her seat and carried her on his shoulders as the crowd of men tried to tear at her dress.

Barbrey knew she should have gone to her nephew’s bedding but she preferred to retire early. There would be a meeting on the morrow in Brandon’s solar, at the hour of the wolf. While the drunken wedding guests slept on, Brandon would speak with his brother of the troubles in the South and he had allowed her to attend.

_I am in his confidence still. I alone know what he means to do._

Ned arrived in the solar five minutes early, with tired eyes and a worried look etched on his face. Even in a miserable dead-end like Widow’s Watch he would not have failed to hear of the tumult in the South.

“What news of King’s Landing, brother?”

“Queen Elia and her daughter have left the capital for Summerhall.”

“An unwise move”, commented Barbrey coolly. She had taken her place behind her husband’s seat, casually laying a hand on his shoulder. “She has left Cersei the only Queen in King’s Landing and the Lannisters the only power in the court.”

“Queen Elia must fear for her daughter’s safety.” Her goodbrother’s face was as severe as ever. “Is there any proof of foul play in Prince Aegon’s death?”

Brandon shook his head. “There won’t ever be. Lord Tywin is too clever to fail to cover his tracks.”

None of them even voiced the possibility of Aegon’s death being natural. The Crown Prince had been a healthy child; yet, a fever had unexpectedly taken him a mere two months after Queen Cersei had given birth to twins Aemon and Visenya Targaryen. The coincidence was simply too great to be believed.

“What does the King say?”

“The King ruled out Prince Aegon’s death as natural and named Prince Aemon his new heir. He wishes for appeasement between his two wives.”

“There can never be appeasement between two Queens”, said Barbrey. “Elia Martell is a Princess of Dorne. _Unbent, unbowed, unbroken._ Do you think she will accept Cersei Lannister’s son taking her murdered child’s place? She is going to push her daughter towards the Iron Throne.”

“Rhaenys’ claim comes after Aemon, wife,” said Brandon in a gently mocking tone.

“Only if the marriage between King Rhaegar and Queen Cersei is valid.”

“There has been precedent of a Targaryen King having two wives.”

“King Rhaegar isn’t Aegon the Conqueror. The blessing given by a High Septon can easily be taken away by another. Queen Elia knows it. After Rhaegar’s death, there will be another Dance of a Dragon. If Elia of Dorne is able to win this war, her daughter will be Queen and Cersei’s twins will be nothing but bastards,” said Barbrey with more strength than she intended.

“Is this war truly unavoidable?” asked her goodbrother.

“I fear it is, Ned. The Lannisters and Martells are already looking for allies and both sides are courting us. Would you like your Sansa to become Lady of the Rock? She’s of age with the Young Lion’s son. Or perhaps you would prefer for your son to wed a Princess? Queen Elia is offering us her own precious daughter to buy our support.”

Barbrey smiled wickedly. Her goodbrother had become as white as sheets.

“By the gods, Brandon, Robin is _five_ and Sansa is a babe in arms! I don’t want to involve them in this.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t involve _us_ in this.”

Brandon stood up and began pacing.

“Our father kept the North away from the petty squabbles of the South. He was right to do so. I think it’s time to take one step further in that direction.”

“Do you mean you want us to remain neutral?”

“For now, yes, we will remain neutral. But, once King Rhaegar dies, I will bow neither to Rhaenys nor to Aemon. The Targaryens have become weak and corrupt. King Aerys was mad and his son is little better. They know nothing about us, nothing about our ways. Why should they rule us?”

“Brother, you can’t mean to...”

“To reclaim our ancestors’ crown? To become King in the North? Ned, I mean to do just that.”

“Once the Martells and Lannister are done tearing each other apart, whoever wins will turn North.”

“I’d like to see them try. No army can cross Moat Cailin and I will have our shores well-defended,” answered Brandon arrogantly.

His grin was almost wolf-like and Barbrey’s heart was torn between pride and sorrow. _Barbrey Stark, the barren Queen in the North._ It seemed like a joke, and a poor one at that.

 _A King can remove the taint of bastardy._ Barbrey thought about a grey-eyed bastard and closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, Rhaegar never met Lyanna so he waited to become King and then took Cersei as his second wife. 
> 
> And Tywin indeed killed Aegon. He hired a Faceless Man which costed him a fortune but 1) Tywin is loaded 2) that is one murder he couldn't afford to botch and a Faceless Man is skilled enough to make the death looked perfectly natural.


	9. Sansa is a Greyjoy who is in love with Robb Stark (Robb/Sansa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulix left me this prompt on chapter seven: "Sansa Greyjoy is a ward of Winterfell and Robb Stark is in love with her."
> 
> I kinda deviated from the prompt because I wanted Asha to be Sansa's big sister. But, if she is, there is no way that Sansa would be a ward of Winterfell. Asha would go instead as Balon's heir. So, in this story, Asha is the ward of Winterfell and Sansa remains in the Iron Islands. Yet, she still falls for Robb Stark - and not he for her, so that's another change for you. 
> 
> I hope you still enjoy the story, Pulix!
> 
> Trigger warning: attempted suicide, severe self-hatred.

Sansa lost her family when she was six years old.

Theon was the first to go, taken by the pox before his ninth name day. Sansa cried at his burial at the sea because Theon was the only one of her brothers who was kind to her. She would miss his smile.

“Greyjoy do not cry,” her father said sternly and Asha shushed her. Her big sister was only twelve but she already acted like a grown-up. She had tears in her eyes but she did not shed them.

After Theon, there was Rodrik and Maron, killed in Father’s war. Sansa did not miss them that much. They were so much older than her that they barely noticed she was alive. But, after their deaths, Mother was never the same again. She just... went away inside, stopped caring for Asha and Sansa, stopped caring about anything at all.

Asha’s departure was the last straw. Because Father had lost, Asha had to go and live in the North. Sansa would always remember her sister as they said their goodbyes on the deck of the ships bound for the green lands. Asha was dressed in leather jerkin with a dagger strapped to her belt. Her eyes were dried and her head held proud. She looked ironborn to the bones.

“I promise I will never forget you or Pyke, Sanny. I will never let the green landers change me.”

“I promise I will make you proud, Asha,” said Sansa before hugging her sister tightly.

She wanted so badly to be strong like her sister. When her father dressed her in breeches and asked Uncle Dagmer to train her to fight, Sansa _tried_. She was graceful but slow and her arms were weak and she did not _like_ fighting, not like Asha used to like throwing her axe and Theon practicing with the bow.

There seemed to be nothing Sansa was good at. She was a poor rider. She could not steer a small ship. The finger dance frightened her. At ten, her father declared to be useless. _“As soft and stupid as a green lander.”_

Sansa was _not_ stupid. She had learnt to read one whole year earlier than her siblings and she loved to go through her uncle’s library. She knew lots of thing about the Iron Islands, and the green lands, and even the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. _“Since reading is the only thing you’re good at, go live with the Reader.”_

So Sansa grew up on Harlaw with her affectionate but distant uncle and a mother who did not recognize her anymore. There was no one her age to play with, at least no one who preferred poetry to knife-fighting. Sansa missed Asha, missed her so badly that, one day, she dipped her quill in ink and wrote to her sister.

“Do you think you can send this to Winterfell, nuncle?”

“Asha is a hostage. I don’t think they will allow her letters from home, Sanny,” replied her uncle. “But I will try,” he added when he saw Sansa’s disappointed pout.

Asha did receive her letter and sent a reply. Apparently, the Starks were pretty mellow. Lady Stark had tried to make Asha wear dresses and learn embroidery but her sister had just laughed it off.

In Winterfell, it snowed all the time and not thin, watery snowflakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. It was proper snow that covered everything in a thick blanket of white. Asha had snowballs fights with the Stark children. She had a nickname for each one of them: there were Jon, _the bastard_ , Robb, _the pup_ , Arya, _the she-wolf_ and Bran, _the baby_.

Asha never said so explicitly but Sansa could feel a sense of gruff affection for the Stark’s brood pervading her sister’s letters. Asha had lost her younger siblings – Theon to death and Sansa to exile. It made sense she came to see the Stark children that way. Still, it bothered Sansa.

Was she jealous of the bond these strangers shared with her sister? No, it wasn’t that. She didn’t resent the Stark children. In fact, she wanted to meet them. She often found herself thinking things like “ _It would be nice to build a snowman with Jon and Robb.”_ or _“I wonder if Lady Stark would let me hold Bran.”_.

She wasn’t jealous of the Stark children. She was jealous of _Asha_ , for finding a new family among the people who were meant to keep her prisoner. The realisation brought tears to Sansa’s eyes. How could she envy her sister? She was home. She was supposed to be the happy one. Yet, she would rather be a hostage in Winterfell than a free woman on Harlaw.

_Father is right. I’m weak and stupid. I’m no true Ironborn._

That night, Sansa allowed herself a good cry under her coverlets. She thought about all the things she would do if she were in Winterfell instead of being stuck here. That night, for the first time but not the last, she dreamed of Winterfell. She was bathing in the hot pools under the weirwood trees.

Sansa woke up from that dream with dry eyes and a new determination. Crying _once_ had been a good idea but she was done with tears now. _I will see Winterfell one day. I will._

She began exchanging long letters with Asha. Her sister asked more and more about the Iron Islands and she asked more and more about life in Winterfell. It seemed Asha had a favorite among the Stark children after all. She spent a lot of time with Robb Stark. She even taught him axe-throwing. That was something she would have taught Theon, had he lived.

 _Robb Stark._ He was the same age as Sansa, and the heir to Winterfell. _I wonder if he’s handsome._ He must have been. He had the Tully look and the Tullys were supposed to be a handsome bunch. _The Greyjoys are supposed to be good-looking too but, when I last saw Asha, she had pimples all over her face!_

Sansa giggled softly. She hadn’t seen Asha for almost eight years. Perhaps her sister had grown to be very beautiful. Not that it mattered much, when Ironborn women were either warriors or wombs. If a man wanted a beautiful woman, he could just take one. That was what salt wives were for.

In the green lands, it was different. There, a woman could be revered for her beauty. _Like Shiera Seastar!_ _They wrote a hundred of songs about her beauty._

Sansa looked critically at her face in the mirror and wondered if she would one day be beautiful enough to warrant a song. Her uncle said she had _the mermaid’s face_. Few Greyjoy maids inherited the ethereal beauty of the Grey King’s wife.

Sansa smiled at herself in the mirror. The green lander King would want a marriage alliance between a loyal House and the Greyjoys. Asha would refuse. Nothing short of death would make her say the vows. Sansa could turn herself into the better alternative. She was not the heir but she was still Balon Greyjoy’s daughter, and not the breech-wearing warrior kind. She was beautiful, well-learned and courteous. In the Iron Islands, it made her weak. In the green lands, it would be her strength.

Perhaps she would even wed Robb Stark. After all, it was to the Starks the green lander King had given Asha. _Red hair, blue eyes, he has to be handsome._

It would be nice to marry Robb. She felt like she already knew him through Asha’s letters. And she would not merely _see_ Winterfell but one day become its Lady.

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. I like the sound of that._

* * *

_Waldon Wynch. He wants me to marry Waldon Wynch._

Sansa felt the sting of tears in her eyes but she blinked them away.

Robert Baratheon was dead and war was tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart once again. In such times, the green landers used their unmarried sons and daughters to forge alliances but the Greyjoy did not make bargains and he did not make alliances. She was a pretty gift for an old vassal and Waldon Wynch was her punishment for being weak and useless in her father’s eyes.

_I will not marry that man, not ever. I’m going to escape._

But how? Her father had forbidden any ships from leaving the Iron Islands. Sansa knew what that meant. Soon, her father would be wearing the driftswood crown once again and reaving alongside the coasts of the green lands.

Even if she found a way to get past the blockade, where would she go? _“To Asha”_ was the first answer that came to her mind but Sansa had not received news of her sister for a long time. Her last letter had been sent from Winterfell. She wrote that she was going South with Robb to save his father and sister. Since then, Sansa had heard that the boy King had the Stark’s head lopped off but little else.

“A letter for you. From Runestone, I gather...” Ten Towers’ old maester was once a very smart man but time had stolen his wits. Sansa was usually very gentle with him but she had no patience for anyone today. She practically tore the letter from the old man’s hands and quickly broke the Greyjoy seal.

The letter had not been sent from Runestone at all, but from _Riverrun_. It was a long letter, filled with information about what had happened to Asha between Winterfell and Riverrun. And it was _mostly_ good news. Her sister was uninjured. Robb was fine too and he had done so well that his bannermen had made him King. Ned Stark had arranged for his daughter to leave King’s Landing before he was arrested so Arya was home and unhurt.

But there was one tiny, almost innocuous detail in Asha’s letter than tore Sansa’s heart in half. Robb Stark was betrothed to some Frey girl. He had sold himself to cross a stupid bridge. _He should have sweet talked the old man into letting him cross and then stabbed him in the back as soon as he was done._ But, of course, Robb would not do that. He was Ned Stark’s son, honorable through and through. _Perhaps if his father had been a little less honorable, his head would still be attached to his shoulders._

She had spent years daydreaming about Robb, kind, brave, dutiful Robb. She thought she could be his perfect Lady but she had been so wrong. _Even without the Frey girl, do you think he would ever marry you, little kraken? You may look the part but you don’t have one scrap of honor._

Sansa tried to wipe out her tears but they kept coming. She had always thought Robb and her were somehow meant to be. That he would fall in love with her the moment he saw her. _You’re just a stupid little girl. Life is not a song: the beautiful maiden does not wed the handsome king but the fat old drunkard her father chose for her. And why would Robb want you? No one ever did. Your own father despises you. Asha would too, if she were here. Your mother would rather be with her dead sons than with you._

 _I’m completely worthless. Even if I somehow managed to get to Riverrun, I’d still be a burden._ Asha fought for Robb bravely. What could Sansa do? Recite poetry at his enemies?

She could not stay here either and marry Waldon Wynch. _I’ll never give my father the pleasure. I’ll die first. I’ll disappear into the sea and they can all go hang themselves._

Before she lost her courage, Sansa put on her cloak and went to the beach. It was getting dark and the cold wind was biting Sansa’s cheeks. She looked at the grey sea.

_I’m not a Greyjoy and I’m never going to be a Stark. I’m no one._

She entered the water. _  
_

* * *

Sansa dreamed as she fell.

She was in the middle of a feast. All around her, fierce, bearded men were eating carrion and drinking salt water. Some of them had been shot several times with a crossbow, other had an axe embedded into their heads or a slash across their throats. All of them were unmistakably _dead_ , corpse-white and rotting.

The feast was presided over by a young man clad in armor. He had the head of a snarling wolf, with bloodshot eyes and froth at the mouth. Atop this monstrous head sat a peculiar bronze crown. _A crowned wolf, a wolf King. Robb._

Next to Sansa’s beloved sat his bride. She wore grey and her face was veiled but Sansa knew she was Death.

On her son’s right, Catelyn Stark sat holding her slashed throat, desperately trying to cry out something. Brandon and Rickon Stark had chunks of skin missing from their face. When they smiled at Sansa, blood fell out of their toothless mouths.

On Death’s left, a fierce little girl that could only be Arya was clad in virginal white. She held a bloody knife in a white-knuckled grip and her face was black and blue. Her bastard brother was sitting next to her. Sansa thought for a moment that Jon was fine... until he dropped face down on the table and she saw the dozen of knives plunged into his back.

Sansa screamed and she bolted out of the Hall. She didn’t look where she was going so she tripped badly and fell face-down on the floor. She quickly stumbled back on her feet and looked what had tripped her. It was the corpse of a young black-haired woman, lying on her stomach. _Asha, no._

Sansa gingerly turned the corpse on her back. It wasn’t Asha. It was _her_. Her lips were blue and her hair was sticky with saltwater. _Drowned._

Sansa covered her eyes with hands. _No, no, stop this, please. Stop this._

Sansa suddenly felt herself being swept in a warm embrace. She opened her eyes and found herself face to face with her mother.

_It was a bad dream. Nothing but a nightmare and Mother is comforting me._

Yet, this could not be real either. Her mother was not the thin, ghostlike woman she remembered. Instead, Alannys Greyjoy looked young and healthy. Her black hair was swept into an elaborate bun and she wore a dress of black velvet and cloth of gold. _She looks like a Queen._

“Sansa, love, look,” said her mother gently.

She was on the dais of another great Hall but this one wasn’t dark and made of crude stone. It was huge and magnificent with walls of pale green stone delicately carved in the shapes of fishes and algae. This Hall was filled with people, men and women, young and old. They sat at the tables or stood in small groups, talking and laughing together. Mermen and mermaids brought them fine dishes and great casks of ale.

Sansa could see Rodrik and Maron among a group of young warriors. Rodrik was playing the finger dance with a boy she thought was her uncle Urrigon. Sansa could feel that all her ancestors – both Greyjoys and Harlaws – were there somewhere, feasting forever in the Drowned God’s Hall.

Sansa turned back towards her mother. Alannys Greyjoy had seated herself on a throne encrusted with seashells. Theon was sitting cross-legged at their mother’s feet, peeling an apple with a knife. He smiled at Sansa before taking a bite.

On a matching throne next to Alannys sat a man that Sansa mistook for her father for an instant. He did look a great deal like Balon Greyjoy but his eyes were older and kinder and he smiled at Sansa with far more warmth than her father had ever directed at her.

Sansa found herself falling to her knees before the Drowned God.

“Please, send me back. I have to help the Starks.”

“Have to?” The Drowned God’s voice was as deep as rolling thunder. “You don’t have to do anything, child.”

Sansa thought about what she’d seen in her vision and her stomach roiled. No family deserved such a fate, and she’d thought of the Starks as her own _for years_.

“I _want_ to help, please.”

“How can you help them if you can’t help yourself?”

“I don’t care what will happen to me as long as I can help them,” Sansa pleaded.

Her mother shook her head sadly.

“No, Sanny. You are worthy of life and happiness as much as the Starks.”

“They are no children of mine,” rumbled the Drowned God. “You are.”

“No,” Sansa managed to get out in spite of the prickle of tears in her eyes. “I’m no true ironborn. I never was.”

 _“_ You are my daughter and your blood is salt and iron. Never doubt that,” said Alannys Grejoy.

The Drowned God beckoned her forward so Sansa awkwardly stood up and took a step towards him. In the God’s outreached hands laid a crown patched together with worthless pieces of wood. _My father’s crown._

Words from an old lesson suddenly came back to Sansa, the words of King Urron Redhand: _“The Drowned God makes men, but it’s men who make crowns.”_

_Robb didn’t make his crown. His bannermen gave it to him._

Sansa smiled. Of course, Robb would never have _taken_ his own crown. He viewed kingship as a duty to his people, not as his right to take. That made him a good King, and a doomed one.

_He doesn’t need a little Frey wife. He needs a wife like me. Someone who knows that duty and honor aren’t enough to keep one’s crown, and one’s life._

Perhaps she was not so worthless. Perhaps she could have been a good wife to Robb, a good _Queen_. However, it was pointless to dream about it. She had spent her whole life dreaming and it’d all amounted to _nothing_.

Sansa started. It had amounted to nothing because she had done _nothing_. She had acted like a green lander, waiting for someone to give her what she wanted instead of trying to take it for herself.

She looked at the fragile crown before her. Driftwood washed up on every shore in the Iron Islands. _Anyone_ could crown himself with driftwood but to actually keep that crown required courage, strength and more than a little bit of cunning.

_Can I? Can I be Queen? I’m just fifteen, I’m alone and... I have absolutely nothing to lose._

Sansa took the driftwood crown into her hands and put it lightly on her head. It fitted perfectly, as if she had been born to wear it.

Sansa coughed. Salt water erupted from her mouth and she fell on the floor, blacking out.

When she woke up, she was lying face down on sand. She could hear the sound of crashing waves close to her. _A beach. I’m on a beach. He sent me back!_

Her whole body was hurting. It took Sansa an immense effort just to crack open her eyelids.

She was surrounded by driftwood. She had washed ashore with it.

Sansa grabbed a few pieces of drifwood and crafted her crown. Even with her trembling fingers, it was the easiest thing in the world. She laid the crown on her salt-matted hair and felt like a proper Greyjoy for the first time in her life. _“Your blood is salt and iron. Never forget it.” I am different from the other Greyjoys but I’m still ironborn. I will take my crown, as Urron Redhand did._

It was time to go back to Pyke.

* * *

 

Moat Cailin was half a ruin in a desolate place but Sansa drank in its sight. Her heart thrummed with joy and fear. _Almost there... but the most difficult battle lies ahead._

One part of her still couldn’t believe she was in the North. The cold wind bit her cheek but she already knew she never wanted to leave.

She had arrived in the Fingers a fortnight ago. Lord Flint had been nice enough once she had introduced herself as Lady Sansa Greyjoy. He had given her some furs, a mare and some of his men to escort her to Robb.

Sansa was still a poor rider but she had improved a little by training these last few weeks on Pyke. _Appearances are important. A future Queen can’t fall from her horse and land on her ass._ Thankfully, her mare had a gentle temper. Sansa had named her Lady.

She brought Lady to a slow trot as she crossed the courtyard. Quite a few men turned their head to look at her. Sansa smiled. She knew she cut quite a striking figure, a noble young lady in snow-white furs atop a black mare.

She dismounted and handed Lady’s reins to a stableboy. “King Robb will see you now, my lady.” Sansa thanked the steward demurely and followed him to the only tower that was still standing tall and straight.

She smoothed the fabric of her dress nervously as she walked, finding comfort in the softness of the fabric. The dress was made of thick, black velvet, with the kraken of her House embroidered in gold threat. Such finery was hard to find in the Iron Islands but Sansa had spared neither effort, nor expense to get it. It was the kind of dress a green lander lady would wear, so she needed it to fit in. Even more importantly, it made her look beautiful. _I must charm Robb. I must charm them all._

Robb Stark’s court was not something out of a song. It was filled with strong, grizzled men in armors. _Warriors, all of them._ Sansa could walk among them with poise. The Iron Islands were filled with fearsome warriors, after all. An assembly of noble, perfumed ladies would have intimidated her more.

Robb himself was sitting on a raised dais, on a carved chair too simple to be called a throne. His direwolf was lying at his feet. His eyes were blue, his hair was red but he looked nothing like Sansa had imagined. _He is handsome, though. More handsome because he is_ real _._

She curtsied deeply, hoping he got a good look down her bodice. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Sansa.”

Robb looked very grave but his eyes were not unkind as he looked at her attentively.

“We thank you for relaying to us your sister’s warning.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it was _my_ warning, not Asha’s.”

Robb’s brows furrowed. Whispers erupted into the hall but the King’s voice quieted them.

“What do you mean?”

He visibly liked to speak plainly, so Sansa chose to answer in the same fashion.

“I mean that it was solely my decision to warn you than our father is planning to attack the North. Asha has betrayed you. She will be part of the attack.”

Sansa could see so many emotions in Robb’s eyes. _Surprise, disbelief, anger, hurt._ She wished she could comfort him. She bowed to him instead.

“Please forgive my sister, Your Grace. Asha is ironborn. She is loyal to the Greyjoy.”

“Everyone, leave us. I must speak to Lady Greyjoy privately.” The hurt was still in Robb’s eyes but his voice was as cool and commanding as ever. His bannermen filed out of the room in silence.

“Lady Greyjoy, how did you arrive here exactly?”

“My father has betrothed me to Lord Wynch, one of his bannerman. He is an old man and I don’t want to marry him. I went to my uncle, Lord Harlaw, and I cried and I begged him to help me run away. My father is forbidding any boat from leaving the Iron Islands but I managed to convince my uncle to break the blockade for me. A few of his most trusted men dropped me at Seagard with a disguise and enough money to go to the Free Cities. I took a boat to the Fingers instead, and Lord Flint was kind of enough to provide me with an escort to go to Moat Cailin.

My uncle will tell everyone on the Islands that I jumped to my death into the sea to escape an unhappy marriage so no one will miss me.”

“Your uncle is the Lord of Ten Towers. You sent your letter from there, am I right?”

“I did, just before I left. The maester of Ten Towers is very old and senile. I know he would not notice the missing raven.”

“And how did you know that your father planned to attack us?”

“Before speaking with my uncle, I went to Pyke, on the pretence of trying to change my father’s mind about my betrothal. I spied on him. It was easy, he never even believed I could. I... spoke to Asha too.”

Robb reclined on his chair a little. Sansa knew what this interrogation meant. He was desperately trying to find fault in her story, because if she was a liar, she might have lied about Asha too.

“She loves you, you know. As her own brother.”

“And yet, you say she has betrayed me.” Robb’s voice was as cold as Sansa imagined a Northern winter to be.

“The ironmen are her people. Did you expect her to betray them to you?”

“I guess I did. She grew up in Winterfell, an older sister to me and my siblings. She fought for me in the Whispering Wood. I trusted her to go to her father and present him with an offer of alliance.”

“And she did. She defended your proposal eloquently, but our father would have none of it.”

“Why? Why attack the North? I offered him lands alongside the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point. I would have doubled the size of his land, and made him King.”

“ _Given him land? Made him King?_ My father is ironborn. He will never freely accept something he can take for himself.” Sansa saw the minute widening of Robb’s eyes and added: “My father is not a wise man. Strong yes, but not wise. He has lost his crown once and he will lose it again.”

“Why are you here, Lady Greyjoy?”

“I came to strike a bargain with you. I know everything about my father’s plan. I know where he will strike, how many boats are involved and who commands them.”

Sansa could see Robb’s eyes beginning to shine. After receiving her letter, he had probably brought back at least half of his army North of the Neck. Without her information, he was strong enough to _defeat_ the ironmen. With it, he would utterly _crush_ them and save many of his men’s lives.

“In exchange, I would ask for two things. First, that you would spare my sister’s life. Only her devotion to our father and to the Iron Islands made her betray you. She’d much rather be your friend and your ally, and she can still be in the future.”

Robb nodded. He was hard to read but Sansa thought he was relieved not to have to take Asha’s head.

“The second thing is that you would wed me.”

Sansa hid a smile before Robb’s utterly flabbergasted look. It was the first time she’d seen him lose control of his facial expression. It made him look younger, and cuter too.

“My lady, I have pledged to marry one of Lord Frey’s daughter.”

“I know. And I’m asking you to renege on that pledge.”

Robb’s face became very serious once again. _Here is a man who takes his word seriously. Too seriously._

“Lord Frey is your grandfather’s bannerman. Yet, he didn’t answer when Lord Tully called his banner. It wasn’t the first time he did that either. During Robert’s Rebellion, Lord Frey was so late to the call he earned a nickname. “The Late Lord Frey”, am I right?”

Robb was looking at her _very_ intently, as if he was trying to see right through her to the surprising amount of knowledge she held in her head. _He’s just realized he had underestimated me._ _He caught on quicker than most._

“Lord Frey swindled you with that deal. We both know it. You shouldn’t have had to pay a toll to cross that bridge; yet, you did anyway.”

“Would you have advised me to pay the _iron price_ instead?” asked Robb coldly but what he meant was _“_ You may know about my kingdom but I know about yours too.”. _He is not stupid, that king of mine, just blinded by his honor._

“No. You didn’t have the time or the men to spare. I would have advised you to promise the old man what he wanted and to go back on your word later.”

“And lose the support of the Freys?”

“Walder Frey has too many sons and grandsons. If he were to die, they would fight over the Twins like jackals.”

“So now, you are suggesting, that not only I break my vow to Lord Frey, but that I murder him too?”

Sansa was prepared to see the disgust in Robb’s eyes but it still hurt. She forced herself to go on:

“Lord Frey is a traitor. He failed to answer to his liege lord’s command not once but twice. You could have his head for his treasons. What’s the difference between cutting a man’s head off and poisoning him? A dead man is dead.”

Robb’s eyes softened a little but his tone was still unwavering as he said: “There are ways to kill a man. Poison is not honorable.”

Sansa let escape a bitter laugh.

“God, you are a Stark. And a man! Not everyone can afford to kill with a big, fancy sword. I guess honor truly is for men.”

Robb seemed startled.

“My lady, I did not mean to offend you.” _He is kind._ “But I don’t plan to kill any of my bannermen.” _Maybe you should._ Sansa bit back her snarky answer and said instead:

“There are compensations that could be given to House Frey. A marriage between your uncle Ser Edmure Tully and a maid of House Frey. Lands and riches from the Westerlands, once you’ve conquered them.”

Robb’s gaze darkened. _He knows a provocation when he sees one._ “The Westerlands aren’t mine yet.”

“You can win many battles in the Westerlands but you cannot take the Rock. Not with your Northmen and Rivermen alone. That’s why you send my father this offer of alliance. You need the Iron Fleet. And I can give it to you.”

“How?”

“My father’s one-hundred ships are heading towards you and the men aboard don’t suspect you are waiting for them. With the information I have about my fathers’ plans, you can ambush the ironmen, defeat them and seize their ships. You can then fill the ships with your own men and sail back to Pyke. My father will think that his men are returning to him after a surprise defeat at your hands... while, in fact, his enemies are arriving in triumph. The Iron Islands are lightly held, since most of the ships and warriors were sent North. You can take the Islands and make my father bend the knee to you, as Robert Baratheon once did. Then, plan the invasion of the Westerlands with him.”

“Won’t he turn on me?”

“Not immediately. You will have defeated him twice and ironborn respects strength. My father can be patient. He will bide his time, wait until you are weak to strike you.”

“Won’t other ironmen?”

“The men of the Iron Fleet will follow my uncle Victarion, who will obey my father’s orders. For the other captains, it is harder to say but my father’s word and the lure of the Westerlands’ wealth should sway them to your plan.”

Robb stayed deep in thought for several minutes, probably reviewing every part of her plan. Finally, he said:

“Who will steer the ships towards Pyke? Northmen are no seafarers.”

“During your ambush, you should try to capture alive as many men as possible. Among them, you will find Lords, heirs, bastards, sons of thralls and saltwives, all kinds of men with their own desires and petty little feuds. Ironmen claim to hate the _gold price_ but most of them can be bought... if you know the right price.”

“You have given me much to think about, Lady Greyjoy. I will send someone to escort you to your quarters and attend you.”

Sansa curtsied and left. Robb had given her no answer but she felt confident. He had, after all, little choice but to accept. Half of his Kingdom was practically undefendable. If he wanted the Riverlands to know any peace, he had to seize the Westerlands, and for that, he needed her father’s fleet.

Therefore, Sansa was not surprised when the King asked to see her that very evening. She had spend the afternoon bathing to get rid of the dirt of the road and brushing her hair until it fell on her shoulders like a soft, silky black pool. Robb was dutiful enough to marry her anyway but he would surely prefer a beautiful bride.

When Robb entered her room, she was surprised to see that Grey Wind was on his heels. The horse-sized wolf was utterly out of place in a lady’s room. Why had Robb brought him? He wasn’t the type of man who would hurt a lady and, even if he did want to hurt her for some reason, his fists and sword were enough. Was this some kind of test? Did he want to see how she would react to his direwolf?

If so, he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Sansa painted a sweet smile on her face and held out her hand to the direwolf, as if he was no more than an ordinary dog. The beast sniffed her fingers, his yellow eyes boring into Sansa’s. He looked surprisingly intelligent for an animal so Sansa tried to project a feeling of friendliness. _I don’t want to hurt your master. I want to protect him._ The wolf either read her body language or liked her smell, for he finally sat and accepted to be petted on the head.

“You are fearless, my lady.”

“Why should I fear Grey Wind? If you were the kind of man to bring a dangerous beast to my chambers, surely I wouldn’t want to marry you.”

Robb smiled but his smile never reached his eyes.

“Why do you want to marry me, Lady Greyjoy? Your uncle offered you an escape from the Islands and money to make a new life. Why didn’t you take that boat to the Free Cities?” His eyes seemed almost accusing. _Why do want a crown?_

_What does that crown mean to me? Lands, title, power, respect, love, family. All these things Robb Stark always had, always took for granted._

She sighed. It was pointless to try to explain him her ache. He could only see the burdens that came with the great gifts his gods had given him. So, instead she said:

“Because of _you_.”

That was clearly not the answer he was expecting. “We’ve met today.”

Sansa blushed. How could she explain to him her childhood daydreams of meeting him, of being his wife and the Lady of Winterfell? It seemed so stupid and childish. Surely, Robb would find her ridiculous.

“Asha wrote a lot. About you and your family. I guess I always thought of you as a friend, even if we’d never actually met.” She thought about her nightmare. “I wanted to help.”

 _That_ sounded weak even to her ears. No wonder Robb wasn’t buying it.

“Asha _grew up_ in Winterfell and she chose her father over us. Why would you act differently? You grew up on Pyke, didn’t you?”

“I did not. My father despised me so he sent me to live with my uncle.”

“Is this your revenge against your father?”

There was such disapproval in Robb’s narrowed eyes that Sansa spoke without thinking.

“And what if it were? Balon Greyjoy is a cruel man who doesn’t care one jot about me. Why should I be loyal to him?”

“He is your blood.”

Sansa could not hold back a bitter laugh.

“So speak the son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the brother of Jon, Arya, Bran and Rickon. If I had a family such as yours, _Your Grace_ , no doubt I would see things the way you do.”

“Is that what you want then, my lady? To be a Stark?”

It was such an acute guess that it startled her for a moment. Perhaps Robb understood her better than she thought.

“Yes.” _Yes, yes, yes._ “Blood is not family. I have no family but Asha and my uncle. What I want is... kindness and respect. And I think I can get that. From the Starks. From _you_.”

Robb raised an eyebrow at the challenge. This time, his smile was genuine.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

“Why?” asked Sansa worriedly. _Will he say “no”?_

“Well, I couldn’t find marriage cloaks on such a short notice so we’ll have to do without them.”

Sansa laughed a little out of sheer relief. “So you accept my offer then?”

“What choice do I have?” said Robb and he looked grave again. “I will be honest with you... Sansa. I don’t know you and I’m not even sure I can trust you yet. So I will only say this: be true to me and I will be true to you.”

Sansa found herself tripping over her words:

“I will be a good wife to you, I swear. I swear it by salt, I swear it by stone, I swear it by steel.”

“Did you not advise to break an oath earlier?” asked Robb doubtfully.

“A vow made to a man, a coward and traitor”, replied Sansa, her distaste plain on her face. “This is a vow to the Drowned God, one you do not break if you don’t want to feed the fishes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sansa has two "dying dreams". The second one can be seen as either reality or fantasy: it's, after all, the ideal afterlife in Sansa's eyes. Everyone is treated equally and well, her mother is strong and beautiful, her "father" likes and respects her. 
> 
> But the first dream is clearly prophetic: you of course recognized Robb's, Catelyn's and Jon's deaths from canon. In this universe, if Sansa had drowned when she threw herself into the sea, here is what would have happened.
> 
> Winterfell wouldn't have fallen to the Ironborn. Asha has too much sense to attack a castle she cannot hold and, though kidnapping her former foster siblings made sense strategically, her guilt towards the Starks and Robb in particular held her hand. But I think the Red Wedding would still have happened even without Bran and Rickon's "deaths" and Robb taking comfort in Jeyne. Jeyne was a honey trap designed by Tywin so he would have made sure Robb fell in it. Some fans have theorized that Sybell Spicer slipped a love potion to Jeyne and Robb and that is certainly possible. Anyway, the Boltons still betrayed the Stark and Ramsay managed to take Winterfell by trickery, blaming the Ironborn and Asha for the attack. Ramsay tortured and killed Bran and Rickon and married Arya for her claim, thus explaining Sansa's vision.
> 
> EDIT: Salamon2 reminded me that Ramsay was a prisoner in Winterfell at that time. However, I don't think it would save Winterfell from the Boltons. If Roose Bolton is determined to betray Robb, he can easily send some of his men to Winterfell, make them take the castle by trickery and then blame the ensuing carnage on the Ironborn. If some of the bastards' boys are among the Bolton men, they would recognize Ramsay-as-Reek in the dungeons and free him.


	10. Ned is the Prince of Dorne, Doran is the Lord of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was born when I wondered how the Stark would fare in the South. So lo and behold, they became the Martells. ^^ Because Ned as Oberyn's bro is too funny to pass up. And because the North would totally play the game of thrones with Doran as his Lord.
> 
> In this fic, Eddard Martell is Elia's elder twin brother. Doran Stark is the fruit of the brief marriage of Lord Rickard Stark and a maid of House Bolton (Roose's aunt). She died in the birthing bed and Rickard married his cousin, Lyarra Stark. Thus, Doran Stark is the much older half-brother of Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen Stark.

The white towers of the Eyrie stood sharply against the cloudless autumn sky. It was a cold day and Jon rubbed his hands together for warmth, trusting the mule he was riding to know the way.

In the three years he had spent in the Vale, Jon had seldom gone up to the Eyrie. The last time had been a few moons turns ago, for the marriage of Lord Elbert Arryn to Myranda Royce.

The Gates of the Moon seemed emptier now that Lord Nestor’s lively daughter was gone. Randa always had a saucy smile or a funny quip for Jon, even though he was bastard-born.

 _I am a bastard almost in name only._ Jon knew how lucky he was. Lord Stark had his bastard nephew educated alongside his own daughter and sons. When Jon had turned eleven, his uncle had sent him to squire for Lord Nestor Royce. It was a very high honor for a bastard and one Jon felt keenly.

Jon often wondered why Lord Nestor hadn’t been offended to be given a Snow instead of a Stark as a squire. Perhaps it was because Jon’s father, Brandon Stark, was still remembered fondly in the Vale. Or maybe it was because Lord Doran Stark had hinted that he had big plans for his bastard nephew. _A knighthood, a keep and another name than Snow._

Jon had dared to hope for a legitimation then. Surely, King Robert Baratheon would have been happy to give the Stark name to his boyhood friend’s son. But his uncle had never asked, and Jon remained a Snow.

_Uncle was still incredibly generous to me. A knighthood means I can make a new name for myself._

Mya Stone, riding at the head of the column, would have no such luck. Mychel Redfort couldn’t possibly marry her and Mya, as stubborn as her mules, would refuse anyone else. There would never be another name than Stone for her.

 _Two Lords grew up in the Vale and they left behind a Stone and a Snow._ Jon hadn’t been born in the Vale, as Mya had, but he still felt a connexion to the place and a certain feeling of kinship towards Mya.

 _And now her father is gone too._ Robert Baratheon had joined Brandon Stark in the grave merely a fortnight after the death of Jon Arryn, the man who had raised them both.

The Hand dying from a sudden illness. The King gored by a boar. These two events so close together had started many whispers and many of them included _Lannisters_ and _poison_ in the same breath. Who but the Lannisters had anything to gain from the deaths of the King and his Hand? Cersei Lannister’s son Joffrey was King, with his mother as Regent, his grandfather as Hand and his uncle as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. 

The events in King’s Landing had all the markings of a Lannister plot. King Robert’s brothers certainly seemed to think so as they had both risen in rebellion against their nephew.

With three Kings for one Realm, the Seven Kingdoms would be torn apart by war. Jon doubted his uncle would get involved though. Doran Stark was a cautious man and the safety of his people came first. Which was undoubtedly why Jon was recalled home.

Why he was summoned to the Eyrie, though, Jon had no idea.

They arrived to the waycastle Snow and abandoned the mules for the traitorous climb in the dark. It was as unpleasant as ever but at least, it was over quickly. Jon and his party were welcomed by Lady Arryn herself in the Crescent Chamber and given warm wine and food.

Randa, six months pregnant and glowing, was as familiar with Jon as ever. When he asked her if she knew why he was here, her eyes crinkled and she said:

“My husband wishes to speak to a Stark.”

“I’m no Stark,” answered Jon almost automatically.

“Close enough, with your long face,” quipped Randa. “Elbert awaits you in his solar, whenever you are ready.”

_Best to get this over with._

Elbert Arryn was a man of about forty, with a full head of grey hair and a beak of a nose that made him resemble his sigil. However, he was not unhandsome and still strong and healthy for his age. Jon suddenly remembered that, on her wedding’s day, Randa had called him a worthy husband, or at the very least a definite improvement over her previous one, before laughing and laughingwith her handmaids.

Jon smiled at the memory and Lord Arryn smiled back. His sky-blue eyes were serious, almost steely, but not unkind.

“Snow. Lord Royce told me many good things about you.”

Jon bowed his head and thanked him. Thankfully, Lord Arryn then went straight to the point.

“You are not yet a man; still you must now war is brewing in the Seven Kingdoms. I have received this letter not three days ago from Stannis Baratheon.”

Lord Arryn handed him the letter but Jon was reluctant to take it.

“Read it, boy. I bet your uncle received the same letter. Soon, every Lord, great and small, and the smallfolk too will know what’s inside.”

After he had finished reading, Lord Arryn asked Jon for his opinion.

“The Queen laying with her own brother... it seems ludicrous, my Lord.”

“You mean it seems like the kind of lie a man would make up to become King?” said Lord Arryn shrewdly. “Aye, it does. But I know that my uncle’s death was not natural. Despite his age, his health was excellent and with the death of the King so soon after... My guts tell me they were both murdered. This could be the reason they died.” 

“So you will join Stannis then?”

“I do not know. Which man is my King, Stannis or Joffrey? And who will give me justice for my uncle? Joffrey’s family may be involved in the murder. As for Stannis, he is a hard man, who never cared for the Arryns or the Starks. Indeed, he was always jealous of the affection King Robert had for my uncle and for your father.”

Lord Arryn’s eyes softened.

“I remember your father well, Jon. Ever since he was fostered in the Vale, there has been friendship between Starks and Arryns. Once already, our Houses stood together and fought for justice and honor. Will it be so again?”

“I do not know,” stammered Jon. “I cannot tell you my uncle’s mind, my Lord.”

Lord Arryn laughed loudly and Jon relaxed.

“I did not expect you to, boy. Your uncle is known for his wisdom and I find myself in need of it. Perhaps together Lord Stark and I could decide what is best for the Realm.”

He got out another letter, this one sealed, that he tapped gently against the table.

“You want me to deliver a message.”

_Why not a raven? It would be quicker._

“This is a formal offer of betrothal between your cousin, Quentyn, and my eldest daughter, Alys. I want you to deliver it to your uncle because you are of Stark blood and very dear to him.”

“It would be my honor, my Lord,” Jon replied, bowing his head. _I guess a beloved nephew is better than a raven but he’s a fool if he thinks it will be enough._  

“Then I wish you a safe journey, Jon Snow, and know that you will always be welcome in the Vale.”

* * *

Catelyn looked at the children splashing around in the pools and smiled.

Lewyn was only three but he was already taking on his older brother Brynden. Lewyn, like all his siblings except Arya, had the Tully look but his personality was much more like his uncle Oberyn’s. Lysa had once described Lewyn’s temper as being as hot as a Dornish pepper. _She would know, Lysa’s daughters are a force to reckon with. All of them._

Catelyn’s own girls were not playing in the pools with their younger brothers. Instead, Arya was practicing the lance with her cousin Elia while Sansa sat in the shade with Alayne, gossiping and snacking on lemon cakes.

A stranger seeing the girls would have sworn that they were two unrelated sets of siblings. With their dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin, Arya and Elia were the very picture of Martell Princesses. But her daughter and Lysa’s eldest (legitimate) girl shared a lot more than outward appearance. They both liked horse-riding, jousting and sword fighting, though Elia favored the lance and Arya the sword.

If someone had told a younger Catelyn that her daughter would wear breeches and carry a sword and that she would be fine with it, she probably would have laughed into their face. _But Dorne... Dorne is so very different from the Six Kingdoms._

In fact, at the beginning of her marriage, Catelyn had felt quite out of her depth. For weeks, her pale skin had burned under the Dornish sun before she had finally developed a healthy tan. For months, the spicy dishes had upset her stomach and burnt her tongue before she’d gotten used to them. The sour Dornish red wine she thought so foul now only made her husband’s kisses sweeter. For years, she had felt naked wearing Dornish fashions until she forgot her embarrassment and learnt to simply enjoy the cool touch of silk on her skin... and Ned’s greedy gaze when they were alone.  

 _And now, it feels natural to see Arya fight._ The sight of her daughter with sword and spear almost reassured her. Any man thinking she would be easy prey would be sorely mistaken. Not that a Dornish woman needed a blade to be dangerous. Sansa had learnt how to use poisons from Tyene and how to lie from Alayne. _No girl can grow up meek in the company of the Sand Snakes._

Catelyn watched her daughter sharing a confidence with Alayne. The two girls had their head close together, their Tully hair mingling. _Gods, Sansa looks just like I did at her age and Alayne is the very picture of Lysa._

Alayne suddenly raised her head, caught Catelyn looking at her and smiled. Catelyn shivered a little. Alayne’s smile and her grey-green eyes were wholly her father’s. Catelyn couldn’t see her niece without being reminded of Petyr’s betrayal.

_It was Lysa that climbed into his bed but he should have refused her! He knew the consequences for her would be terrible._

A broken maidenhead and a bastard in her belly. The consequences for Lysa had been dire indeed while Petyr got to slink back to the Fingers. Her sister’s happiness would probably have been ruined if it hadn’t all happened in the middle of a war.  

Catelyn had married Prince Eddard Martell just before Robert’s Rebellion so it was logical for House Tully to join the loyalists. Her father, however, chose to withhold his support until the Martells agreed to a betrothal between Prince Oberyn and Lysa.

 _It was the only thing he could do. It isn’t unheard of for Dornish noblewomen to take lovers before marrying and some even birth bastards. And Prince Oberyn, with four bastards of his own, was the least likely to take offense to Lysa’s state._  

Her father had been right. Prince Oberyn had taken his wife’s daughter as his own and Alayne had become as much a part of the infamous Sand Snakes as Oberyn’s own bastard daughters.

All in all, Lysa’s forced marriage to Oberyn had turned out surprisingly well. Catelyn had been surprised – and, if she were honest with herself, more than a little shocked – by how many _appetites_ her sister had in common with her husband. Lysa began sharing all his pleasures and, soon, they were inseparable partners-in-crime. There were even oddly faithful to each other: there were no more Sand children from either of them, only four legitimate daughters.

Catelyn would always be grateful to Oberyn for Lysa’s smiles but she still had mixed feelings towards her goodbrother. Because Oberyn had slayed Edgar Yronwood, Ned had to foster Robar with Lord Yronwood. He was able to visit once in a while but Catelyn still missed him badly. He had grown far away from her, going from an adorable child to a fine young man, most like her brother Edmure in looks but in temperament truly his father’s son.

 _Rob is safe, he is in Dorne and he will be returned to us soon._ Catelyn could not say the same of the other men missing from her life. Edmure was a hostage in King’s Landing. Her father was alone in the Riverlands and his health was so bad that Catelyn had half a mind to go to Riverrun to see him. She knew she could not, however. The Prince of Dorne’s wife would make a fine hostage to either King Joffrey or King Stannis.

“Catelyn?” she heard her husband’s voice from behind.

She turned to look towards him and paled. Ned’s face was graver than usual and his dark eyes were filled with worry. _Bad news._

“Is this about my father?” Catelyn asked breathlessly.

“Please come inside, Cat.”

She threw a look at the children and nodded before following him to his solar.

“The Ironmen have attacked the coasts of the Riverlands. They’ve taken Seagard.”

Catelyn bit her lip. _Damn Balon Grejoy._

Attacking her home made sense. Her father was dying and her brother was far away. Edmure had only bent the knee to King Joffrey because he had no other choice. With his uncle breathing down his neck, the Boy King probably had little thought to spare to his ally in-name-only.

“I’m sorry, Cat. I can’t send help. Dorne has no navy and, to send men by foot, we’d need to cross the Reach. The Tyrells love us not and I have no King to tempt them with.”

Catelyn knew what Ned was going to say before he opened his mouth. Without their usual warmth, her husband’s eyes looked like deep pools of black. It was Oberyn’s eyes looking back at her, the eyes of a man who thirsted for vengeance for his sister.

“You think the time has come.”

Her husband’s expression softened a little.

“I am not a bloodthirsty man, Cat. I’ve always felt guilty about having to bring war to Westeros. But war’s already here. Stannis Baratheon is gathering his force for an attack on King’s Landing. The ironborn are raiding the Riverlands’ coasts. I can’t help your people but maybe Queen Daenerys can.”

Cat lowered her eyes, deep in thought. Daenerys Targaryen sailing to Westeros would only add one more pretender to the Iron Throne. It would make the war _bloodier_. _But the Riverlands are already burning._

“You won’t give up on your vengeance,” she said tiredly. “It might as well be now.”

Ned opened his mouth and then closed it. They’d had this argument too many times to restart it.

“It’s not vengeance, Cat.” He finally said quietly. “It’s _justice_.”

The murders of Elia of Dorne and her children had been brutal. Monstrous even. There was not doubt in Cat’s mind that the perpetrators deserved death. _But what is justice to love, peace, family?_

“You may die for your sister’s justice. Rob may too. Don’t ask me too be fine with it, Ned. I won’t ever be,” she said just as calmly.

“I wish you had known her, Cat. If you had, I think you would understand. Elia... was my twin. We were together since our first breath. Things weren’t always easy between me and Oberyn but Elia held us together. She was witty and fun and kind-hearted.” Ned’s smile became blinding as he lost himself in his memories of his sister. Then, his face fell as he remembered Elia’s fate. “They killed her, Cat. They killed her and Robert Baratheon stepped over her and her children’s bodies to get to the Iron Throne. I can’t accept that.”

“You didn’t. You refused to bend the knee to the Usurper. Dorne flourishes under your rule. We are happy and safe here, Ned. I didn’t know Elia but I think she’d rather not see you dead for Tywin Lannister’s blood.”

Her husband gnawed at his lips worriedly before dismissing her point, _as always_.

“Dorne is prospering but what about the other Six Kingdoms? Robert Baratheon was unworthy to be King and his son seems to have inherited his grandfather’s cruelty on top of his father’s incompetence. If he even is the Usurper’s son.”

Ned had received Stannis Baratheon’s letter proclaiming Cersei Lannister’s children bastards born of incest. It seemed utterly ridiculous, a lie invented by an overly ambitious brother to get his nephew’s throne. _But what if it were true?_

“Stannis Baratheon could make an able King,” said Catelyn carefully.

“Don’t ask me to support a Baratheon, Cat. I can’t.”

Ned’s jaw was set, his eyes harder than steel. His determination to see the Targaryens returned to the throne had not wavered since the day of Elia’s death.

_Men should fear him instead of Oberyn. His anger burns as hot as fire but Ned’s is as merciless as the Dornish sun._

“So it will be Daenerys Targaryen.” _A girl of fifteen, but one who survived a son, a brother and a husband._ “Rob will have to wed her to fulfil the marriage pact.”

“Don’t worry, Cat. He won’t go to the Queen alone. Oberyn shall accompany him to Qarth. I wanted your uncle to go as well but Brynden chose to return to the Riverlands.”

Cat nodded. Her uncle’s feud with her father had pushed Brynden Tully to accompany her and Lysa to Sunspear, where he had eventually become the captain of the guard. However, nothing would keep him for helping the Riverlands in their time of need.

* * *

Jon’s cousins were waiting for him in the courtyard of Winterfell.

Arianne was the first to greet him with a delighted “Jon!’ and a hug. Jon tried to hide his surprise as he hugged her back. In the three years he hadn’t seen her, his cousin had grown for an awkward teenager to a stunningly beautiful woman with her mother’s Norvoshi looks.

Theon Greyjoy was standing one step behind Arianne.

“Snow,” he greeted Jon over Arianne’s shoulder. 

“Greyjoy,” Jon replied tersely.

Ever since Lord Stark had taken him in as a ward, Theon and Arianne had been joined at the hip. Since Arianne was now a maiden flowered, their closeness was deeply inappropriate but neither of them would care, of course.

Trystane was the next to hug him, his dark eyes shining bright.

“We have a surprise for you! You need to come to the kennels.”

“Do not rush him, Trystane. Jon has had a long journey,” interrupted Quentyn.

He had voluntarily held back until that moment. The heir to Winterfell did not like to rush into things. He greeted Jon with a warm smile, his eyes placid. _He looks even more like Uncle, now._

“I am tired, confessed Jon, but even more curious about what surprise Trys has in store for me.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” said Arianne with a mysterious smile and they were off to the kennels. Nothing could have prepared Jon for what he found there.

“Direwolves. Three of them. They were South of the Wall?”

Trystane nodded.

“We found them a few months ago. This is Silver.” He pointed to the sleekest of the pups, whose silver fur was beautiful and thick. “He’s mine.”

“And this is Nymeria, said Arianne proudly, the only female pup of the litter.”

Jon’s eyes fell automatically on the last pup, the biggest of the three, with a deep black fur. The pup caught Jon looking at him and snapped his jaw, daring him to come closer.

“Balerion,” said Quentyn simply. Jon smiled. It was easy to see why the pup was named after the Black Dread.

“Ghost, come here now, sweety,” cooed Arianne. A spot of white fur appeared in the hay. A fourth direwolf pup had been sleeping, hidden behind its siblings. It was by far the smallest of the litter, with red eyes and fur like fresh snow.

“As soon as we found him, we knew he had to be yours,” explained Trystane.

“We took turn caring for him until your return,” continued Quentin.

“I hope you don’t mind but I gave him a name, said Arianne. I couldn’t keep calling “you” or “pup”. I chose Ghost because he’s so white and he never makes a sound.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. Its gratefulness to his cousins was like a solid ball of warmth blocking his throat. He felt his eyes water.

“No bastard has ever been as lucky as me,” he finally said.

“Jon, you deserve it,” said Arianne warmly.

“You are our blood. A Stark in all but name,” agreed Quentyn.

“Come now,” said Arianne as she dragged him gently away from the kennels. “There is a feast in your honor tonight and you look like death!”

 

The following day, Jon was summoned to his uncle’s solar. The pain in Lord Stark’s joints had increased with age and he hardly left his chair. Still, even old and infirm, his uncle still gave an aura of power.

“Jon,” his uncle greeted him kindly, his pale Bolton eyes full of warmth.

“Uncle, Lord Arryn asked me to deliver this to you.”

Lord Stark quickly went through the letter and smiled.

“Yes, that proposal may be most convenient to us. I think I will accept.”

“Really? I thought you would rather keep out of this war and Lord Arryn will drag you into it. He wants justice for his uncle.”

“If that’s all he wants, I may persuade him to our side.”

“But on which side are we? Joffrey? Stannis?”

“There is another option. The last Targaryen still lives accross the Narrow Sea.”

“Princess Daenerys?” Jon racked his brain for knowledge about the girl. “But she’s younger than me and she has no support. Both Stannis and Joffrey have the might of great Houses behind them.”

“Yes, but she has something more devastating than any armies. _Dragons_.”

Jon remained speechless. Dragons had disappeared hundreds of years ago, during the reign of the Dragonbane. They were nothing but the stuff of legends now.

His uncle must have guessed his thoughts as he said:

“I know it sounds utterly unbelievable but my spies in Qarth are all singing the same song. It could still be false, of course, a trick on the girl’s part. Men can easily be deceived or bought. However, we shall know the truth of this. I am sending you to Qarth, to meet Daenerys and her dragons.”

Jon’s face split into a grin. Sailing across the Narrow Sea and visiting the great city of Qarth, meeting a fair Princess and maybe creatures out of legends, it all sounded like an incredible adventure. But, as he thought about the implications of his meeting Daenerys, his face fell.

“Maybe you should send Quentyn instead. He is your trueborn son and heir. A Princess shall surely be offended to receive a mere bastard as an envoy.”

“Jon, you are not a mere bastard,” said his uncle with a pained expression. “If I want to offer my sword to Daenerys Targaryen, it isn’t only because of her dragons – if they indeed exist. It’s also because we are bound by blood.”

Jon frowned. He hadn’t heard of a union between Stark and Targaryen since the failed Pact of Ice and Fire. Of course, there was Prince Rhaegar’s abduction of Lyanna but, as it had been rape, it didn’t unite the two families but divided them.

Once more, Lord Stark seemed to read his thoughts:

“Many things that are said about Rhaegar and Lyanna are untrue. It was Brandon’s idea to betroth his sister to his best friend. He wanted Robert to be his brother in truth. Our father approved of the match as he wanted more influence in the South.

Lyanna herself wanted nothing to do with Robert, as she knew him to be a drunk and philanderer. She was still a young girl and far from insensible to a beautiful face and sweet songs of romance. It was probably easy for Prince Rhaegar to seduce her and convince her to elope with him. He married under the Heart Tree in Winterfell and she bore him a son. You.”

“Uncle,” said Jon with a faint smile, “you must be joking.”

“I am not. I found Lyanna in Dorne, dying after giving birth to you. We were never particularly close, not with twenty years separating us, but she made me swear on my life to protect you and I did.”

“So it’s all a lie? My father’s not Brandon Stark? My mother’s not from the Riverlands?”

“Brandon had many women on his way here from the Vale. It was the best story I could come up with to protect you.”

“You could have told _me_ the truth!”

His uncle smiled sadly.

“Jon, you are still very young. If you had known the truth, you could have betrayed some of it without meaning to. And, if he had learnt the truth, Robert Baratheon would have burnt the North to the ground to find you and kill you. Such was his hatred of your father.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen’s not my father. It can’t be. I’m just a Snow,” said Jon, shoulders slumped.

“Jon, I’m sorry. I tried to prepare you the best I could. To give you the education you deserved as a Prince. To use my authority as a Lord of Winterfell so people would respect and honor you in spite of your fake name.”

“But why tell me the truth now? Do you feel it’s safe because Robert Baratheon is dead?”

“Now that Robert’s “son” and brother are squabbling over his crown, it is time to take all that is your right, Jon.”

Jon couldn’t help but stare at his uncle, wide eyed.

“You cannot mean... the Iron Throne?”

“Why not? You are Rhaegar’s only son and heir.”

“The Targaryens were removed from power, by _you_ , Uncle.”

“I helped Robert win his throne because it was the only way I could get justice for my father and brother’s deaths. I never thought much of him and the disaster that was his rule proved me right. His son – if he is indeed his son, which I doubt – seems even worse than him. As for Stannis Baratheon, he is an able man but too harsh, too unwilling to compromise. He thinks kingship is his due and forgets he must _earn_ his bannermen’s loyalty. Also, I do not like the reports from my spies in Stannis’ entourage: burnt Septs, black magic, and that strange Priestess of R’hllor who follows the King like a shadow.”

Once more, Jon was impressed by his uncle’s knowledge of everything that happened West and East of the Narrow Sea. Lord Stark was not nicknamed “a thousand eyes and one” for nothing.

“But surely Stannis or Joffrey would still make better Kings. I’m only fifteen and I wasn’t as a Prince or a Lord, in spite of your kindness.”

Lord Doran Stark looked at him with eyes as cold as ice and as sharp as steel.

“Jon, you are my sister’s son, a Stark in blood if not in name. Our blood is even older than the dragonlords’ and I won’t let a pesky lion or an overproud stag steal what is yours by right.” His uncle let out a breath and said more lightly: “You are young, true, but you have a good head on your shoulder and not an ounce of madness or cruelty in you. You will make a finer King than most.”

“Uncle, I have Stark blood and a Stark face. No one will believe I am Rhaegar’s son.”

“They will believe it if you manage to tame a dragon.”

“Tame a dragon?” Jon repeated in a strangled voice.

“Hopefully, one of Daenerys’ dragons will bind to you. But, even if it doesn’t happen, the Princess’ hand in marriage will be enough to quiet any whispers about your parentage.”

“She will never have me!”

“In exchange for the swords of the North, she will.”

“Uncle...  I cannot do this. I’m not even a knight, just a squire. I cannot tame a dragon, wed a Princess, become a King.”

“You will have a hard road to walk, I do not deny it. But you will not be alone in your journey. Harrion Karstark, Smalljon Umber, Ser Wendel Manderly and my young cousin Domeric will accompany you and be your honor guard.”

Jon suddenly felt as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

His uncle did something unexpected then. With a hand on his desk for support, he rose. Only a slight tightening of his jaws betrayed the pain that must have shot through his legs. 

“You carry the hopes of the North with you, Jon. I know it is not easy. But I have faith in you... Your Grace.”

His uncle then bowed his head to him. It was a small bow but it couldn’t be seen as anything but what it was: an act of fealty. The shock was so thundering that Jon felt as if someone had hit him square in the chest. Everything his uncle had told him suddenly became real.  He was a Prince, a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon.

“Then I won’t disappoint you, Uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this verse, Brandon was riding from the Vale to Winterfell on an ordinary trip when he learnt of his sister's abduction and went to challenge Rhaegar. Elbert was not with him so he survived.
> 
> I might have been pushing it with Hoster Tully forcing a Prince of Dorne to marry his pregnant daughter but I really wanted Lysa and Petyr's daughter to live. We know that in canon, Hoster bitterly regretted what he did to his daughter at the end of his life... perhaps in his verse, he couldn't go through with the forced abortion and decided to marry Lysa off instead.
> 
> I hope you like my version of Martell!Ned and Stark!Doran. Doran is still a very cautious, intelligent and ambitious man but he is also honorable and proud of his Stark heritage. As for Ned, he is still the honorable man we know but his anger about his sister's death is great. He is also more willing and able to play the game of thrones.
> 
> If I continue this fic, it will probably a Jon/Dany, with some Sansa/Aegon (because Sansa deserves to be Queen in every verse) and Robb/Arianne. Sorry Robb, but your princess is in another castle. ^^


	11. Tywin Lannister is born a girl (girl!Tywin/Aerys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin Lannister is born as Tyta Lannister, and the Seven Kingdoms are changed forever.

Tytos Lannister’s first-born daughter was no beauty.

Tyta could have been pretty, if she had known how to smile. Instead, her face was so cold and inexpressive that it might have well been carved from rock. Her pale green eyes were beautiful but her gaze was so piercing that it made men uncomfortable.

Every since her mother’s death, Tyta had been the _de facto_ Lady of Casterly Rock. Every member of Lord Tytos’ household, from the castellan to the lowest scullery maid, knew to step lightly around her. Even her father’s mistress dared not openly defy her. The heir to the Rock, young Lord Kevan, adored his elder sister and held her opinion in the highest regard.

However, any power Tyta held in the Rock meant little and less when her destiny was in the hands of her foolish father. She learnt it to her sorrow when Tytos Lannister announced his daughter’s betrothal to Ser Stevron Frey before all his bannermen.

Tyta opened her mouth to speak sharply against such a foolish match when she realised it was not her place to speak out. She would sound like a stupid little girl vainly rebelling against her father’s wishes. Nor could she speak with her father later, in private. With so many witnesses to the betrothal, if Lord Tytos went back on his word, no one would take a Lannister seriously ever again.

_House Lannister is enough of a laughingstock with Father’s painted whore sitting in his lap. I must do my duty. I must marry Stevron Frey._

The idea of being one day Lady of the Twins brought the taste of bile into Tyta’s mouth. The Lord of the Westerlands’ firstborn daughter, bowing before the Tullys. It was shameful. _But I will not show any shame. I am a lioness of the Rock. I will not cringe for them._

During the whole feast, Tyta held herself proudly, teeth clenched and muscles rigid. With her golden hair tumbling on her shoulders and her golden-green eyes looking far away from her father’s jeering bannermen, she almost had the cold, distant beauty of a statue. 

After her betrothal, the Rock lost some of its charm to Tyta. She had been too proud, believed herself the mistress of her father’s ancestral seat. She would never presume anything ever again.

Fortunately, she did not have to stay in Casterly Rock much longer. The King needed ladies-in-waiting for his daughter. For once, her father had the good sense to send her. By befriending the future Queen, Tyta could augment the influence of House Lannister.

Tyta didn’t make friends easily. Most friendships were nothing but paltry relationships that dissolved into nothingness at the first sign of trouble. But, for House Lannister’s sake, she had to try and at least have a cordial relationship with Rhaella.

The Princess was a sweet and sad thing. There was no love between her and her brother. However, it was hard to sympathize when Rhaella’s unwanted marriage would make her a Queen while Tyta’s own would leave her to rot at the Twins.

Tyta liked the Prince even less than his sister. Aerys was very handsome with soft silver hair and long-lashed purple eyes but he ruined his beauty by being overly conscious about it. When Tyta saw him walking in his black and scarlet armor, he reminded her of nothing but a great peacock strutting about in a barnyard.

The Prince often visited his sister, out of gallantry rather than affection. It was during such a visit that he first took notice of Tyta.

“Why are you so grim, my lady? Has any harm befallen you or your family?”

“My family is very well, Your Highness.”

“Then, why have I never seen you smile? A smile would suit this pretty face of yours far more than a scowl.”

Tyta swallowed slowly. Prince Aerys was a fool but he was no weakling. Slighting him was a risk she could not afford to take. She forced herself to answer civilly:

“Thank you, Your Highness. However, I only smile for the happiest of occasions. It seems to me than smiles are often squandered in worthless situations, ‘til they grow empty and meaningless.”

“Then bringing a smile to your face would be a feat worthy of a Prince, my lady.”

Aerys took her hand in his and softly kissed it. _The gall of the man, behaving this way before his betrothed._ Not that Rhaella seemed to mind, she was looking out of the window, completely ignoring her brother.

Every time she saw him, Aerys continued to show her marked favor. He gave her soft words and small gifts – a beautiful flower from the gardens, exotic fruit recently brought from Dorne. Tyta was beginning to be unnerved by it. Surely, if the Prince was looking for a whore, he could find a better one at a much cheaper price. It had to be the challenge of seducing her that was appealing to him.

The best way to get rid of the Prince would have been to yield to his advances. But Tyta was a Lannister of Casterly Rock and she was no man’s whore, not even a prince’s. She refused every gift and answered every sweet word with nothing but cold courtesy.

Everyone still believed she slept with Aerys. The ladies either despised her for it or tried to gain her favor. Tyta could hear their laughter behind close doors; she could feel the scorn in their eyes. _House Lannister, house of weaklings and sluts._

She had come to King’s Landing hoping to restore some of her House’s reputation. How ironic, that she had only further ruined it. Sometimes, Tyta hated Prince Aerys for it. Mostly, the Prince was too incompetent to warrant hatred.

Aerys had obviously never met a woman his status, good looks and easy manner could not charm. Tyta’s unrelenting coldness left him completely out of his depth. The Prince’s suit grew more desperate, his gifts more extravagant: jewels and gowns, always in red and black. As if Tyta could wear Targaryen colors.

When the Prince was out of ideas to woo her, he asked her, with a look of utter misery, if her heart was already taken.

Tyta almost laughed at the childish question. Then she thought of saying yes. Would that rid her of Aerys? She doubted it. He would only press for details and her lies risked crumbling around her.

“No,” she said abruptly.

The Prince looked immensely relieved. “Then, there must be some way for me to gain your heart?”

Tyta considered telling him to ride to the Westerlands and throw her father’s whore out of the Rock but she decided against it. _It is us Lannisters who must pass judgement upon her, if we ever want to be respected again._

“No.”

The Prince frowned. Tyta could see the beginning of a temper tantrum coming.

“It’s not true. Everyone wants something.”

Perhaps it was time to be honest with the Prince. Not enough for him to develop a grudge against her but enough to make him lose interest.

“What I want is irrelevant. I am a Lannister and I must do my duty by my House.”    

Aerys looked confused. “If it is the honor of your House you desire, I don’t see any problem. My grandfather is getting old and my father is sickly. I will be King soon. When I sit the Iron Throne, I can raise House Lannister higher than it ever was. Won’t that please you, my lady?”

Tyta’s eyes narrowed. _Doesn’t realize how shameful it would be for House Lannister to gain power this way?_

“No.”

The Prince’s rage exploded.

“What is it with you, woman? I’d give you everything, I’d beggar the Realm for you and you’re still not pleased! You must be lying to me. You must have some lover or...” Aerys floundered. “Defend yourself, say something.”

“Have you considered I’m not for sale, Your Highness?” said Tyta, throwing him a look that could have frozen Dorne.

 “For sale?” he babbled. “I never meant... I only wanted... You know I love you, Tyta. You must have realised it. The whole court has.”

“The whole court calls me your whore. And, if I accepted to be petted and diddled by you, I would be.”

“I will silence them,” said Aerys with cold fury in his eyes.

“You will do nothing. You don’t love me, Your Highness. You hardly _know_ me. If you did, you would not be so eager to bed me. Find yourself some more beautiful, more amiable girl to fuck. I’m not worth the trouble.”

Aerys looked at her with a gaping mouth. Tyta bit her lips. She thought she was long past such foolish losses of temper.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I spoke out of turn. If you would forgive me.”

She curtsied and took her leave. Aerys’s anger ebbed and flowed quickly. With a bit of luck, he would think her a shrew and forget her.

She was not so lucky. Aerys found her the following day in the gardens. He didn’t look angry, just pale and preoccupied. He bowed and kissed her hand as long as ever.

“My lady, I must beg your forgiveness. You were right. I don’t know you well.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Highness. I was terribly rude.”

“You were _honest_ with me. So few people are. I am surrounded by fools and flatterers, shameless lickspittles that seek nothing but to gain the favor of a Prince! You must always tell me the truth, Tyta.”

She looked at him, hiding her doubt. _Men often clamor for the truth, yet they seldom like to hear it._

“You are silent. Once again. Is it politeness that makes you hold your tongue? There’s no need. I’m not angry at you for what you said yesterday. You may tell me anything.”

“You’re short-tempered, Your Highness.”

Aerys laughed. “I am a dragon. Our blood is always boiling. I may speak in anger sometimes but you know I could never hold a grudge against you, Tyta.”

“This is a grave fault indeed. A King cannot let himself be provoked into anger, nor can he allow himself to speak or act foolishly.”

“You are harsh, Tyta.”

“I am as harsh as I need to be. You can have the truth from me if you want, but nothing else.”

“I _will_ silence the whisperers,” said Aerys resolutely. “I won’t allow you to be slandered, my lady.”

“The more you defend me, the more people will think we are involved. If you care about my reputation, do not seek me out.”

Aerys looked pained. “I want to know you better, Tyta. I can’t avoid you.”

Tyta nodded. If the Prince had decided to be stubborn, there was naught she could do about it. Hopefully, her cold, commanding personality would soon send Aerys running.

She was oh so very wrong. Not only the Prince sought her company more than ever but his gaze grew tenderer every day. He did snap at her sometimes, when her harsh criticism was too much for his overly large ego, but he always came back to her like a lovesick puppy.

Tyta couldn’t shake the Prince off and, while it still annoyed her, she began to grow intrigued by Aerys’ behavior.

“Why do you keep spending time with me?” she asked him during one of their strolls through the gardens of the Red Keep.

“That’s a pretty stupid question for someone so smart.”

“It isn’t,” Tyta answered, brows furrowed. Aerys had started to tease her recently and it bothered her. Teasingmeant emotional intimacy and Tyta wasn’t good at emotional intimacy. The only people she felt truly close to were her brother, Kevan, and her cousin, Joanna.

“Well, to begin with, you are smart.”

“Most men don’t look for _smart_ women,” she scoffed.

Now, Aerys looked offended.

“I’m not most men. I’m the future King!”

“Then starting acting like one.”

Aerys opened his mouth to yell at her but stopped abruptly.  

“You’re strong. You’re proud. You don’t let anyone bully you, not even me. And you are beautiful.”

“That’s not true.”

“You are beautiful to me.”

“You’ve already tried poetry. It’s still not going to work.”

“I mean it, Tyta. Other men find you off-putting because you act so cold all the time but I don’t mind. Your smiles will belong to me and me alone and that will make them sweeter than the Maiden’s kiss.”

“You’re completely delusional.”

“Am I?” said Aerys, smiling crookedly. “Won’t I _at least_ get a smile when I give you your heart’s desire?”

Now, Tyta was deeply troubled.

“What do you mean, Aerys?”

“ _Everything wants something._ I didn’t know you then, but I know you now. You are a harsh woman, unflinching, proud and utterly devoted to your family. _Power and respect_ for your House and, then, for yourself. That is what you want and that is what you deserve.”

Tyta felt a cold shiver down her spine. She had been foolish to underestimate Aerys. The Prince saw and understood her a lot better that she’d thought and being seen and understood were the first steps towards being exploited and destroyed. She carefully kept her face smooth and cold as she said:

“Speak plainly, Aerys, or do not speak at all.”

“I intended to keep it a surprise”, said the Prince, pressing his fingers together excitedly, “but I can’t resist telling you now! We are going to be married, Tyta.”

Tyta felt as if a block of ice had just dropped in her stomach. _How many women believed in such promises and then found themselves alone with a bastard in their belly?_ No, Aerys had to know such tactics would not work on her. She had told him to his face she wasn’t a whore.

“Do you _actually_ mean that?”

“Of course I do,” replied Aerys, brows furrowed. “You know I love you. How can you doubt me?”

“Princes don’t marry for love.”

“Do they?” the Prince said angrily. “My grandfather did. So did my father and all my uncles. Why should I be forced to marry Rhaella?”

“Is this a tantrum, Aerys? Are you rebelling against the match your family made for you?”

“No!” Aerys took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “If I hadn’t met you, I would have married Rhaella. But now, I _can’t_.” He caressed her cheek gently. “You’re not just the woman I love, you’re the one I want by my side when I rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyta could see nothing but honesty and longing in Aerys’ eyes. _He’s not lying. He means every word of it._

How she had underestimated him, indeed. All these times he had asked for her advice, he was not merely seeking to know her better or to ingratiate himself in her eyes. _He was testing her_ , and he had judged her worthy to be his Queen.

“Then, yes,” she said abruptly.

“Yes to what?”

“Yes, I will marry you,” said Tyta before she realised Aerys hadn’t even asked. He had merely _told_ her they were going to be married.

Indeed, why bother asking when he knew she would never refuse? She would be Queen, the most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and Lannister blood would one day sit the Iron Throne.

Aerys laughed and kissed her when he heard her say yes to the question he had never asked. Tyta, though, waited until she was before the Septon to feel joyful. But, when the Prince finally clasped the Targaryen cloak around her shoulders and took her for his lady and wife, she was wearing the biggest smile of them all.

* * *

The wheelhouse whined and lurched on the uneven road to the North.

Daena was staring at Tyta, eyes filled with an anger that burnt as hot as wildfire. _Let her stare. She is a princess of the Iron Throne and the blood of Casterly Rock. She will learn her place._

“I won’t marry him,” said Daena in a too quiet tone. “Aemon will...”

“Your brother will do his duty. As will you.”

Daena’s face twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Did you do yours? Did you marry the Frey pig your father chose for you?”

“I have been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and your father’s true Hand for fifteen years. You are not fit to rule, Daena,” Tyta said flatly.

“Father does not listen to you anymore,” said her daughter, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “But he will listen to me. He loves me best.”

 _Foolish girl. You don’t know what you’re talking about._ After his captivity at Duskendale, Aerys’ mind had grown dark and he saw enemies in every shadow. He even distrusted his own wife.

Daena was clever enough to see it, and clever enough to exploit it, but far too self-centered to see the consequences of her father’s growing madness. _If I ever needed proof that she must never be Queen, then I have one._

Thankfully, her daughter’s scheming would amount to nothing as Tyta had the firm intention to leave her North with her betrothed. _She will not be able to corrupt Aemon any longer._  

Tyta’s firstborn son loved his twin sister passionately and was loved back, after a fashion. Tyta disapproved – not on principle, as her children were Targaryens – but because their relationship seemed to bring out the worst in them. When Daena was concerned, Aemon was even more arrogant and reckless. As for Daena, she was rasher, more selfish and obsessed with being her brother’s Queen.

_They will never ever wed. I wouldn’t allow it, even without the marriage pact._

Tyta had grudgingly accepted the pact binding her children’s to Rhaella’s, as her marriage to Aerys would have been otherwise dissolved. Now, it seemed most convenient. Daena’s match with the heir to Winterfell was a worthy one and would keep her out of the way. As for Aemon, one of Rhaella’s daughters would make a fine wife for him.

 _Daenerys. A good Targaryen name, and she has her mother’s look._ It would grant Aemon more legitimacy.

Not that her fool of a son would see it, as he was as uninterested in politics as a Crown Prince could be. Aemon had only two great loves in his life: fighting and his twin sister.

Tyta closed her eyes. It was like her children were mockery from the gods. Her beautiful golden twins, blind to duty and reason, and Maegor... Maegor pained her most of all.

Tyta sometimes hated him, for almost killing her in the birthing bed, for robbing her of her ability to have more children and, most of all, for shaming her House because of his deformity. But Maegor also had qualities his siblings sorely lacked: sharp intelligence, political astuteness and an unfailing sense of duty towards his family.

Tyta had required Maegor to join the Faith, as she would not have him spawn more dwarfs with the Targaryen name, and he had done so without complain. Recognizing her son’s brightness, she had started to tutor him to serve one day as his brother’s Hand and, once again, Maegor had risen to the challenge brilliantly.

 _If only he had been born whole, I could have taken pride in him._ It was a thought Tyta often had and, as usual, she squashed it ruthlessly. Such manifestations of sentiment were for fools, not for queens.

* * *

Daenerys stood perfectly straight as her maids adjusted her dress. It was deep lilac, made to compliment the color of her eyes, and bordered with ermine fur.

Rhaella couldn’t help but smile proudly at her daughter looking so regal. Then, her smile faded and her joy turned into bitterness. Daenerys looked too much like her younger self. Her daughter was fulfilling the duty she had managed to escape.

Rhaella could only hope that Aemon was not Aerys. He was also Tyta’s son, only half of a Targaryen. Hopefully, she wouldn’t see the seeds of madness in him, as she had seen them in her brother, in her own son...

Rhaella couldn’t think about Brandon without pain. She had loved her firstborn so much, from the moment the midwife had put him in her arms. He was her beautiful Stark boy, with nothing Targaryen in him but the deep violet of his eyes. Rhaella had then hoped that her boy would be free from the taint in her blood. But as Brandon grew up, he reminded her of no one more than Aerys. He had the same deceptive charm, the same youthful bouts of temper. Rickard dismissed it as the wolf blood but Rhaella knew better. _Lyanna_ had the wolf blood, not Brandon.

Rhaella shot a look at her eldest daughter. Lyanna was picking at her own dress, a much simpler affair than her sister’s. A normal young lady would have been outraged to be so blatantly and purposefully outshone by her younger sister but Lyanna was not a normal young lady. She was a true wolf that one, her little wolf pup, and for all that she loved her, Rhaella had the hardest time understanding her. 

The maids had finished with Daenerys. Rhaella went to stand next to her daughter, in front of the mirror.

“You are beautiful,” she said softly, “and the Prince will be a fool not to fall in love with you.”

Rhaella could see some of her own doubts about Prince Aemon reflected in her daughter’s eyes. Daenerys had always been clever and Rhaella had never shielded her from the truth.

“You will do well,” she insisted. “I have faith in you.” _If Aerys or his son ever hurt her, I will find a way to make them pay. I swear it by the old gods and the new._

Rhaella could see her other daughter behind them. Lyanna seemed on the verge of exploding.

“Speak your fill, my dear,” she said gently to her eldest daughter.

“Dany, this is not you! I remember a girl who did not mind getting dirty when we played in the godswood, a girl who loved riding as much as me and could outrace the wind. And now, _look_ at you, all proper, hardly moving in your dresses, doing nothing but _embroidery_ and _harp playing_.”

Lyanna shot her mother a venomous look.

“And you think this is my fault,” said Rhaella calmly.

“You _made_ her this way.”

“Do not blame Mother about this. She’s just helping me prepare to my life in King’s Landing. One of us has to marry the Prince, after all,” said Dany somewhat drily.

“That’s not true. Mother didn’t have to marry her brother, he just chose someone else!”

“Girls, sit down. There is much you don’t know about my youth.”

Dany sat down eagerly, curiosity shining bright in her violet eyes. Lyanna slouched in her seat, a little show of rebellion. _Both of them are so young, children still. Yet both shall soon be betrothed. They need to hear this._

“When I was your age, I was betrothed to my brother Aerys but I did not love him. When I saw him falling for one of my ladies-in-waiting, I did everything in my power to throw him in her arms. I even stood as a witness of the secret marriage between my brother and Lady Lannister. I escaped my duty, defied my father, to avoid an unhappy marriage.”

Rhaella looked at her daughters: Dany looked shocked. Lyanna had perked up, her approval of her mother’s actions clear on her face.

“At that time, I was very much in love with a young landed knight. I knew he shared my feelings as he had crowned me his Queen of Love and Beauty. Yet, I never tried to elope with him. When my father decided that I was to marry _your_ father, I went North without complain. Do you know why?” Neither of the girls spoke up so Rhaella continued: “My grandfather, King Aegon, allowed all his children to marry for love. This offended most of his bannermen and caused a short bloody rebellion. I had shirked my duty once; I wouldn’t do it twice and cause bad blood between the Starks and the Targaryens.”

“Do you ever regret marrying Father?” asked Lyanna softly.

Rhaella laughed.

“No, my dear. Your father is a good man and we build a happy life together. I hardly think about that young knight anymore. In hindsight, I realize I never really knew him. It was only a youthful love, a fancy. What I have with your father is better than that.”

Both of her daughters looked relieved to hear it, especially Dany.

“So you understand now why one of you _must_ marry Prince Aemon. Your father and I signed a marriage pact and, if we went back on our word, the Realm could bleed.”

“If one of us has to do it, it should be me,” said Lyanna. “I am the eldest.”

Dany turned to her sister.

“Lya, we both know you would be utterly miserable in King’s Landing. But I don’t have to be.  I _know_ I can do well in the court. I will miss riding with you and I will get a little bored with all that embroidery but _I will be fine_.”

“It’s still unfair,” said Lyanna glumly.

“It is the way things are and I will make the best of it,” said Dany.

Rhaella felt nothing but pride for her two daughters. Dany had an incredible ability to become whatever duty required her to be and a quiet strength about her that Rhaella admired. _She will be a better Queen that I would ever have been. Good Queen Alysanne reborn._

Lyanna had more of Daena the Defiant in her than Alysanne but, no matter how selfish and wilful her daughter could be, her heart was always in the right place. _She will make a formidable Lady, but we will have to find a man that is worthy of her, that will respect her._ Perhaps a match in the North, where Lyanna felt most at home, or maybe in Dorne, where her wildness would be admired and not ridiculed. She would have to speak to Rickard about it.

A soft knock on the door jolted Rhaella out of her thoughts.

“Enter!”

“Mother,” her second son greeted her as he entered. “Dany, Lya, you look very pretty.”

“You look pretty too, Ned!” teased Lyanna.

Rhaella smiled, as her daughter was not wrong. With his long silver hair and Valyrian features, Ned had always been more beautiful than handsome. Girls loved his looks and threw themselves at him but Ned was still painfully shy around them.

“The Queen’s party has been sighted. I thought you would want to know,” said her son, blushing slightly.

“We don’t have a minute to lose. Girls, let me check your hair.” Rhaella called the maids back and soon the room was a bustle of feverish activity.

Though Rhaella was still worried about the royal visit, she felt a new hope bloom in her heart. They were the Starks of Winterfell and together, they could face the dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was hard to write Tyta. I wanted her to have the same essence as Tywin but, as a woman, she is subjected to far more rules than him. She is still harsh and unsmiling but she must always be courteous because she's a lady. Still, she manages to rule the Realm as Aerys' Queen and unofficial Hand (she does not hold the title but she does the job). She's even happy with Aerys for a few years before his madness catches up with him. 
> 
> Fun facts: - Tyta was betrothed to Steffon Frey, and not Emmon, because she is older than Genna so Emmon would be too young for her.  
> \- Rhaella was almost married to her cousin Steffon but her father decided it would make her too close to Ser Bonifer Hasty, the young knight she loved.  
> \- The prophecy is respected by having Aerys' and Rhaella's children marry each other: the Prince that was Promised will be born of the line of Aerys and Rhaella, just not directly.  
> \- The symbolism of Tyta's children's names is very obvious. ^^
> 
> It's funny how a single event can change the Game of Thrones forever. Now, we have seven new contestants. Who will die? Who will marry? Who will sit the Iron Throne? I have no idea myself but please give your opinions in the comments.
> 
> Our potential Kings and Queens:
> 
> The Golden Dragons (Tyta's children)
> 
> Princess Daena Targaryen (born 259 AC): Equivalent of Cersei but worse as she grew up as a Princess. In canon, Tywin loved Cersei best because he reminded her of Joanna. Here, she is Tyta's least favorite child as Daena is blamed both for her own faults and for her brother's. Aerys dotes on her.  
> Prince Aemon Targaryen (born 259 AC): Exactly like Jaime, but slightly more arrogant. Tyta loves him but is still aware that he makes a better knight than a Prince. She blames it on Daena's "corrupting" influence.  
> Septon Maegor (born 262 AC): Equivalent of Tyrion but happier and better adjusted. In canon, Tywin hated Tyrion for killing Joanna and despised him for being a dwarf. Here, the hatred doesn't exist, Tyta still despises Maegor but is not blind to his qualities. You could even say he is her favorite child but she would die rather than admit it. 
> 
> The Winter Dragons (Rhaella's children)
> 
> Brandon Stark (born 260 AC): Similar to canon!Brandon in looks, but with violet eyes. His personality is a mix of canon!Brandon's and Viserys'. He is already showing some signs of the Targaryen madness, to his mother's sorrow. Rickard Stark loves his heir and dismiss the early signs of his madness as hotbloodedness.  
> Eddard Stark (born 262 AC): Similar to Rhaegar in looks, but with Stark grey eyes. Inside, he is our reserved and honorable Ned. :) His mother's favorite son, because he has her looks but is not touched by the madness.  
> Lyanna Stark (born 264 AC): carbon-copy of canon!Lyanna. She grew up with the love and guidance of her mother. Dany's her best friend instead of Benjen.  
> Daenerys Stark (born 265 AC): equivalent of canon!Dany. She had a much happier childhood with a loving home and family. As soon as Rhaella realized that Lyanna marrying Prince Aemon would be a terrible idea, she pushed Dany into being a perfect Lady. Dany's a little bit resentful of the role and afraid of what is waiting for her in King's Landing but she is determined to be a good Princess and then a good Queen.


End file.
